


This Above All

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Growing and Learning [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt John Watson, Johnlock (implied), Living with a Holmes, M/M, Sherlock will help John through this, The Holmes brothers have a way with children, Uncle Sherlock, Widower John Watson, mystrade, violence against women (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Past our Dancing Days" in which some loose ends are picked up and we find out more about the British Government and his police officer, and in which Sherlock Holmes reveals yet another facet of his personality.</p><p>Set some 2 years after Series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft came home just after midnight after attending a row of meetings that fortunately had led all parties involved to agreeable, if not pleasurable, results. 

When he opened the door there was light coming from the general direction of the sitting room but no sound was to be heard.  He smiled to himself, assuming Greg had fallen asleep on the couch, and hung his umbrella up by its handle on the doorframe, a habit he had picked up from Greg when they were still commuting between their individual flats.  Greg’s hallway had been too narrow for anything but the most basic furniture and he had cursed Mycroft’s umbrella more than once after it had slid down the wall against which it had been propped up, causing both of them to stumble over it.  Hanging it up on the doorframe had seemed the easiest and most logical solution, and Mycroft had quickly taken to it, although ‘narrow’ was hardly the correct choice of words when it came to the flat they now shared.  He put his briefcase down next to the bedroom door and quietly made his way to the sitting room.

Upon entering, however, he found both floor and coffee table to be cluttered with crime scene reports, Greg sitting cross-legged in the middle of what seemed a magical ring of grisly photographs, brow furrowed and lips pursed.

Mycroft strolled inside and in a conversational tone said: “I love what you’ve done to the room. I’ve always felt it needed more colour.”

“Mhm?” Greg looked up, lost in thought. “Oh! Mycroft! Hello.” He scrambled to his feet and crossed the distance to greet Mycroft with a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry you have to see this, I thought I’d be done before you got home. What time is it anyway?”

“About half past midnight, I think.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Wow. Time does fly when you’re having fun.” He gave a sheepish smile. “There’s something that seriously bugs me about all of this,” he gestured towards the photos, “and I just couldn’t find peace and quiet back at the Met. It’s all fine and dandy being DCI, but my God, the paperwork’s a bitch, and people just won’t leave you alone if you want to get some real work done.”

He gathered the photos and reports up and put them back into their respective folders, then stretched and yawned.

“Believe it or not but I can’t wait for Sherlock to return from his little holiday. We’re stuck and I’m itching to show all this to him.”

Mycroft made a non-committal noise. “Have you heard from him?”

“Not from him personally, but I have spoken with John and Mary. Apparently Sherlock is the best uncle little Emily can possibly have.”

“I don’t doubt it. He has the maturity of a six year-old so they should get along splendidly. Has he already introduced her to the beauty of a microscope, and is she assisting with his experiments?”

“She’s two!” Greg laughed, but reached for his mobile phone he had placed on the table, quickly scrolled through the files and handed it to Mycroft.  The screen showed a photo of Sherlock with a little girl whose huge blue eyes were solemnly fixed on the glass slide Sherlock was holding in his hand.  She was sitting on his lap, snuggled into the crook of his elbow with utter trust, and Sherlock was looking at her with a mix of surprise and affection. “You got a point, though. John told me they got home one day and Emily was sitting next to Sherlock in her high chair with a pair of children’s goggles on her face while he was doing something horrible with beeswax and some sort of acid and Mary’s new body lotion.”

Mycroft snorted. “I take it neither John nor Mary were particularly happy about that?”

“Mary said she was afraid John’s carotid artery would burst. The only reason he didn’t scream his head off was the fact that Emily was there and he doesn’t shout when she’s around. Guess they’ll think twice before inviting him to join their next family holiday.”

“Sherlock would never put her into danger.” Mycroft handed the phone back to Greg. “Strange as it may appear, given his lack of manners and interpersonal skills, he’s fiercely protective of vulnerable creatures. Little Emily is in the best of hands with Uncle Sherlock.”

“And I have yet to hear complaints about Uncle Mycroft from Chris and Steph,” Greg smiled at his partner. “Seems both the Watsons and the Lestrades have adopted a Holmes into their families.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to fetch the newspaper and roll over,” Mycroft said drily and Greg’s smile widened into a grin.

“Oh, I can get the newspaper myself, but as for you rolling over, mhm.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively but another yawn ruined the desired effect and Mycroft laughed.

“Come now, let me tuck you into bed, old man.”

Greg protested only half-heartedly and followed Mycroft into the direction of their bedroom.  He stripped, took a quick shower and was already half asleep when Mycroft came to bed.  Mycroft put his arm around Greg and reached for his hand.  When their rings came together with a soft metallic sound, he smiled in the dark, intertwined their fingers and pressed a kiss to the back of Greg’s neck.  Greg mumbled something unintelligible and gave Mycroft’s hand a squeeze.

Mycroft listened to his steady breathing and asked himself, not for the first time, what he had done right to deserve this.  They weren’t young men anymore and so hadn’t committed to each other with youthful naivety and expectations of a sky full of violins and fluffy white clouds but both knew what they had found in each other was precious, and their relationship had developed into something deeper and more loving than either man had dared hope for himself.  After their first and only major fight almost three years ago – Mycroft kept referring to it as his near-death experience – they had managed to navigate their way through most disagreements with a healthy pragmatism on Greg’s part and superb negotiation skills on Mycroft’s.  Neither of them was so rigidly set in his ways that any compromise or adjustment would have represented an unacceptable invasion of his daily routine; however, there were occasions where negotiations failed and patience was worn thin, but Mycroft quickly found out there were alternatives to shouting and slamming doors and he sometimes picked a fight for the sole reason that make-up sex with Greg was, well, something else.  For all of his gentle patience and his jokes about already having been 'domesticated' by his ex wife, Greg had a temper and Mycroft would sooner change tailors than admit that the sight of his partner’s dark eyes blazing with fury, the sound of his voice growing hoarse and his accent getting a little thicker was a massive turn-on.

He adjusted his breathing pattern to that of Greg and soon fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, the memory of this day’s meetings banished.

******

“Well, Lestrade, what do you say? Are you up for it?” Chief Superintendent Peterson looked expectantly at Greg who shifted a little uneasily on his feet.

“Hold a complete course, sir? I’m not sure... well, why me?”

“Because the lectures you give at the Academy usually have an audience well above average and the students attending your seminars achieve remarkable results. That's why the Academy’s director approached me after the tragic loss of DCI Fuller to find out whether you would be interested to hold the next IMSC course.”

“But that’s a three week-course, isn’t it?”

“That is correct, yes. Fifteen days.”

“Sir, I am currently involved in the investigation of a double homicide...”

“Yes, Lestrade, I am aware of that. The course starts next month which gives you enough time to prepare and to get another senior officer on board to take over the investigation, if necessary.” He held up a hand. “Before you even think about asking, no, I’m not taking the case away from you because I think you’re not handling it well. Quite the contrary. I am extremely reluctant about all this, but DCS Stewart is in desperate need of experienced senior officers willing to take on the training of young policemen and –women. This is not a demotion, Lestrade. This is a cry for help.”

“Hm.” Greg made a humming sound. “Do I have to make a decision right now, or may I sleep on it?”

“Let me have your answer by tomorrow morning.”

“You will have it. Thank you, sir.”

Peterson nodded his dismissal and Greg went in search of DI Andy Rogers, his friend and colleague.  He found him in the incident room where he was going through bags containing pieces of evidence with a deep frown on his face and chewing on a pencil with what seemed grim determination.

“Andy. Got a minute?”

Andy looked up. “Sure. What is it?”

Greg closed the door behind himself. “Getting anywhere?”

“Well, yes and no. I’m waiting for the lab results because I hope the DNA traces will prove my idea right but it’s a bit like grasping at straws. Any idea when the consulting pain in the arse will be back?”

“Tomorrow, I think. After a week of family bliss I’m sure he’ll be more than glad to focus his attention back on the beauty of murder and unsolved riddles.”

It had taken quite some string-pulling in the background but Sherlock had eventually been offered a consultancy agreement with the Metropolitan Police to assist on a call-by-call basis.  In addition to that, he had graciously accepted Andy to be his contact whenever Greg wasn’t around, much to everybody’s surprise.  Andy had found his own way of dealing with Sherlock in the meantime, fascinated by the man’s sheer brilliance and also a tiny bit attracted by his unusual looks and deep baritone voice, and so blithely ignored being ordered to not think in Sherlock’s presence or to leave the room so as not to lower the IQ level. 

“Listen, do you think you could take over from me?”

“Take over what?”

“The investigation.”

“What? You pulling out?” Andy looked alarmed. “Anything the matter? You alright?”

“No no, nothing wrong with me. It’s just that the Super has asked me whether I’d be willing to hold the next IMSC course. Apparently the Academy is short of a teacher.”

“Oh wow. Where does that come from?”

Greg shrugged. “No idea. Seems the couple of speeches I’ve given and the seminars I’ve held have made me somewhat popular, and the Academy’s director thinks I’m the one to save the day.”

“IMSC – that’s the beginner’s course for new Sergeants, right?”

“Yeah. Initial Management of Serious Crime. The basics of proper policing, so to speak.”

“Why not. I can just see you in front of a group of motivated police officers. All those bright young boys and girls, their fresh faces turned towards the experienced DCI...”

“Shut up,” Greg laughed but Andy continued in a breathless voice, “... and he’s so good looking, a silver fox, and did you know he likes women _and_ men...”

“... and he’s also very married,” Greg pointed out.

“Negligible,” Andy said dismissively and Greg huffed.

“Try telling that to Mycroft.”

“Oh wait, yeah, damn. Head spook and such. Wouldn’t wanna piss him off, right?”

“Exactly. So. If I’m to give this course, do you think you can step in and head the investigation? Unless we finish in time? Which I doubt, by the way.”

“I doubt it, too. Maybe, with Sherlock’s help, but you never know with him. But yeah, I can take over.”

“Thanks mate. I really appreciate it. I have until tomorrow to decide but I think I’d like to do it. But I wouldn’t do it at the expense of the team. And I can always back you up, you know, I won’t be stuck at the Academy 24/7.”

“Ah, but the extra hours you’ll be putting in, you know, tutoring some of the more diligent students...,” Andy started but Greg slapped the back of his head.

“Shut up now, seriously.” He reached for the latest report. “Care to fill me in on your findings?”

******

“Teaching, hm?” Mycroft peered at Greg over the rim of his reading glasses.  He had finally accepted the fact that his eyes tired more easily, especially in the evenings, had given in to Greg’s nagging and was now the not-so-proud owner of a pair of half moon spectacles.  The blow to his personal pride was somehow softened by Greg declaring him ‘downright sexy’ and saying he was developing a ‘serious kink for spectacles’.

“Yeah, imagine that.”

“Is it something you enjoy doing?”

“Well, yes, in fact I do.” He paused and swirled the wine in its glass. “I like giving those speeches, and holding the seminars was fun. I’m not sure it’s something I want to do full-time, but I’d like to give it a try.”

“Then you should do it.” Mycroft removed his glasses and batted his lashes. “Just imagine, all the handsome sergeants in their crisp uniforms turning their young and eager faces to the attractive DCI for words of wisdom and advice...”

“Oh please.” Greg snorted. “You sound just like Andy. He said the exact same thing.”

“Did he now?” Mycroft said lazily. “DI Rogers. A very observant man. No wonder Sherlock is willing to put up with him.” He took a sip of the red wine Greg had chosen for their dinner. “Seriously now. If you enjoy teaching, then by all means, do it. I think you will be brilliant. You will not bore your students to tears with theoretical schoolbook knowledge, you have hands-on experience to draw from and a very down-to-earth overall approach.”

“You know, this might be just the chance I’ve been looking for,” Greg mused.

“Chance?”

“Well, you see, I’m fifty now. For how much longer do you think I want to run around, chase criminals and try and keep up with the younger coppers? Or your brother?”

“You can always leave the running to the younger policemen and –women, it shouldn’t be part of a DCI’s daily work anyway,” Mycroft suggested.

“That’s not the point. I have already delegated stuff to Donovan, and Andy is taking over a good part of my legwork. It’s just that I don’t want to become a desk copper or the old man to be dragged around, and I’m not much of a career person. I don’t care about the number of pips and crowns on my shoulders, and I hate politics with a passion. No offense,” he hastened to add.

“None taken.” Mycroft smiled.

“And there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“I really hate it when our areas of responsibility collide. Before, well, before us, I didn’t really care about it. I mean, I hated it when the suit squad rushed in, ‘we’ll take it from here’, like they’re the rulers of the world, but that’s how it goes. Suit beats uniform, no matter what the fine print says. But now? I’m finding it increasingly difficult to hold still, and I’m dreading the day when someone comes up to me and asks whether I could put in a word with you. I wouldn’t want this to come between us. Ever.”

Mycroft hummed.

“I see. Would you be able to split your time between the Academy and your division, or will you have to quit one if you do the other?”

“I don’t know yet. For now, I’ve been asked to do only this one course, but I sense a career opportunity coming my way. Peterson made it sound like Stewart thinks of hiring me.”

“What about –”

He was interrupted by the buzzing of Greg’s mobile phone.  Greg looked at the screen and frowned.

“It’s Sherlock.” He checked the time. “He must have just returned from his little Watson family experience. - Sherlock,” he said politely. “What an unexpected pleasure. Desperate already?” He listened and jumped up. “What? Where are you? – Of course. I’ll be right there!” He ended the call and turned towards Mycroft. “There’s been an accident. Sherlock’s at the Royal London. I gotta go.”

“What?" Mycroft had his phone out in an instant. "Has anything happened to him? What about the Watsons?” 

“I don’t know yet. He sounded really shaken but I think he is alright. You don't have to come with me.”

“Nonsense. Sherlock’s in hospital. Of course I’m coming with you.” The call was connected. “Timothy, good evening. I need to go to the Royal London Hospital immediately. Please have the car ready asap. Yes, Mr Lestrade will be with me. No, it’s not concerning myself. Thank you.” He speed-dialled a second number. “Susan, Holmes here. Send two men to the Royal London Hospital and have them stand by for further instructions. Yes, I will be there shortly. No, I’m perfectly fine. It’s to do with my brother. Thank you.”

By the time they crossed the entrance hall of the apartment building, the car was already waiting and Timothy held the door open for them.  They got in and Greg slumped against the comfortable leather seats.  It had taken him a while to get used to this kind of luxury and he stubbornly maintained his independence by taking cabs and buses when he was by himself, but in moments like this, he was grateful for not having to waste time waiting.

They rode in silence.  Greg mentally went through all sorts of scenarios and he could tell from Mycroft’s expression he was doing the same.  Sherlock’s voice had sounded nothing like him at all, strangely distant but not in the haughty manner he applied at crime scenes.  He had sounded detached, traumatized even.  Something must have happened to John.  He wouldn’t sound like that because of Mary.  Sherlock had accepted Mary as the woman John had chosen to marry and he always was on his best behaviour around her, well, most of the time, but something had occurred shortly after the wedding that had kept him at a safe distance since then.  Greg wondered if it had anything to do with Sherlock being shot at Magnussen’s office, but Sherlock refused to speak about it.  Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft knew but assumed he did for he refused to speak about it, too, and despite all of their bickering and elaborate insults, the Holmes brothers had found a way to work agreeably together when they decided on a matter’s overall importance.  Greg found the idea of those two brilliant minds combine forces both fascinating and frightening.  Anyway, it probably wasn’t Mary Sherlock was so worried about.  It must be either John or... dear God no.  Not little Emily.

The car came to a halt in front of the A&E unit and they all but ran through the door.  Greg flashed his ID and asked to be taken to Sherlock Holmes and Dr and Mrs Watson.  A nurse pointed him in the right direction and he crossed the corridor with long strides, Mycroft and his security staff in tow.

He spotted Sherlock at once.  The consulting detective’s tall and slender frame sat cowered in one of the chairs in the waiting section and Greg thought he had never seen him look so lost and lonely.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Sherlock raised his eyes and blinked rapidly. “I’m OK,” he said in an unsteady voice, cleared his throat and repeated, “I’m OK. Sprained ankle, a cut on my right thigh, five stitches, nothing serious.”

“The Watsons? Little Emily?”

“Emily is fine, just a few bruises and a small cut on her left arm. She’s been transferred to the paediatric ward for the time being, just to make sure.” He swallowed. “They’re operating on John right now. His left leg is badly broken and some ribs are broken, too, from what I understood.”

“Mary?”

Sherlock swallowed again and in a shaky voice said, “Mary’s dead. They couldn’t save her.”

He looked from Greg to Mycroft.  It seemed as if he noticed his presence only now, and suddenly he looked like a little boy turning to his big brother so he would make it all go away.

“Mycroft, I don’t know what to do. John’s wife died on the operating table. Please tell me what to do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Greg closed his eyes in horror.  Mary Watson dead.  Fate certainly wasn’t merciful on John Watson.  He had been through war, had thought his best friend dead for two years, and now, that he had finally managed to build a new life for himself and his little family, fate struck again and took his wife away, throwing him yet again into the pits of despair he had thought to have left behind.  Greg opened his eyes, uncertain what to say, only to stare at the picture before him.

Mycroft had come to crouch before Sherlock.  He took his brother’s hands in his and in a voice that Greg had never before heard on him said, “Sherlock, it’s going to be alright. You will do just fine. John and Emily will get through this because you will be there for them. But before we speculate about the ‘what if’, let’s focus on the facts. Now. Tell me what happened. Facts, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked again and took a stuttering breath.  He didn’t pull away from Mycroft’s touch and Greg hardly dared breathe for fear of disturbing the strangely intimate scene before him.  For a split-second, the image of a young Mycroft kissing his baby brother’s bruises better flashed through his mind.

“We were coming home from Bournemouth. Mary and John took turns driving, and I was on the backseat with Emily. I was reading an article on microspectrometric determination of – well, never mind, I was reading to her because John said the sound of my voice had a soothing effect on her. We were on the Westway heading for Maryleborne Road and then John hit the brakes really hard and I heard Mary scream and I remember checking if Emily’s seatbelts were secured and then I remember sitting next to the car with Emily in my lap and the ambulance…” His voice trailed off and he removed his hands from Mycroft’s. “Do you understand, Mycroft? I wasn’t paying attention because I was distracted…”

“Sssshhh,” Mycroft said softly. “You did right. You had your eyes and attention on your goddaughter. That was the right thing to do.”

“But if I – ”

“There was nothing you could have done. You did the right thing. What else do you remember?”

Sherlock straightened, narrowed his eyes and began to look a little more like himself, and Greg exhaled, only now realizing he had actually held his breath.  Mycroft got up from his crouching position and took the seat next to his brother.

“Mary had just asked John to make a quick stop at Jason’s Fabrics on Edgware Road because she wanted to pick something up and he started arguing that she should have told him sooner because he couldn’t get off the Westway right there, and then he made a rude remark at a lorry driver and his reckless overtaking, and then he hit the brakes.”

“The lorry, Sherlock. Anything special about it?”

“It was blue, I think.”

“You think?”

“Listen, like I said, I was reading to Emily. Go check the CCTV footage,” he snapped. “I’m sure your minions can find something useful.”

The moment of brotherly peace was over and Mycroft sighed almost inaudibly.  He rose, reached for his mobile, excused himself and retreated into the opposite corner, signalling his security staff to join him. 

Greg cleared his throat.

“Are you really alright, Sherlock? Anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock started as if to say something rude, changed his mind and shook his head.

“No. Thank you.”

“Would you like us to give you a lift home as soon as we receive news on John’s status?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had said something particularly stupid.

“A lift home? You cannot be serious. I’m not leaving before he wakes up.”

“Alright then. Anything you need? Food, drink, clothing?”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture and Greg shrugged.  He knew better than to insist, knew Sherlock had to work things out in his own Sherlockian way of analysing and sorting data. 

“Fine. You need me, you ring me. Anytime, you understand? Anytime.”

He held Sherlock’s gaze until the younger man tilted his head in reluctant acknowledgment.  Mycroft came back with a satisfied look on his face.

“CCTV footage of that area will be secured and examined. I will get in touch as soon as we find something useful. In addition, a team of two will take turns standing guard by Dr Watson's room at all times until the situation has been cleared.”

The brothers looked at each other and a whole conversation seemed to take place.  Both nodded and Mycroft turned towards Greg.

“Let’s go home. Sherlock would prefer to be alone, I think.”

On their way to the exit Greg asked, “Is there something fishy about this?”

“Why are you asking?”

“You and Sherlock.”

“Sherlock and me what?”

“You know, being so… Holmesian.”

Mycroft snorted. “Holmesian.”

“Well, staring at each other like that. Like _thinking_ at each other. Come now, Mycroft, there _is_ something fishy, right?” Greg insisted, policeman’s instincts roused.

“That depends on the CCTV footage. As of now, I can only speculate and you know how much I hate that.”

The car was parked at an appropriate distance from the A&E entrance, not blocking the way of the ambulance vehicles, and when they got in, Mycroft said, “221B Baker Street, please.”

Greg made a humming sound. “Very good idea. Sherlock will need an overnight bag. Heaven knows when he gets home.”

“And it’s only fair to warn Mrs Hudson about upcoming changes.”

“Changes?”

“The biohazard swamp my brother calls his home needs to be thoroughly cleaned and made childproof. I have reason to believe that he will soon be sharing his flat with what remains of the Watson family. We cannot have little Emily crawl around on the floor as it is.”

“Oh! You think John will move back in with Sherlock?”

“I’m not sure if he will move back in permanently, but I think it will be better for him not to be alone when he gets released from hospital. And while one could hardly call us the best of friends, I believe I have come to know him well enough to assume that Sherlock will be the only person able to reach him.”

“You have a point there,” Greg agreed. “But the stairs up to the flat at 221B? Surely that’s not going to be fun with a broken leg?”

“There’s always a way, and Dr Watson is anything but not stubborn.”

 

Mrs Hudson was already waiting for them, deeply worried, and Greg felt a momentary pang of guilt for having caused alarm by phoning ahead.

“Is Sherlock alright?” She raised her eyes to his face for signs of bad news.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” he said reassuringly. “Everything’s alright with Sherlock. He was in a car accident but he’s not badly hurt, just a few cuts and bruises. We’re only here to gather a few of his things because he will want to stay at the hospital until John comes to, and probably a little while longer after that.”

“Oh! It’s John then, oh dear. How bad is it?”

“He broke his leg, I think, but they were still operating on him when we left.”

“What about Mary and little Emily?”

“Emily is fine. She was in the backseat, next to Sherlock in her baby seat, all buckled up safely.”

“Mary?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Mrs Hudson, if you don’t mind, I would like to go into my brother’s flat and pack a bag for him.”  He shot Greg a desperate look, wordlessly begging to be excused before the blow was delivered.  Greg gave a discreet little nod.  While he wasn’t fond of delivering sad tidings himself, he knew that being exposed to unfiltered human emotion was almost physically painful for Mycroft.

“Yes, of course, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said absent-mindedly. “You know your way.”

“I certainly do. Thank you.” Mycroft turned and fled upstairs, relieved.

Greg turned to fully face Mrs Hudson. “Why don’t we go inside for a moment,” he suggested and gestured towards the door to her flat.  Her eyes met his, and what she saw made her blanch and turn around obediently.  When they were seated at the small kitchen table, Greg reached for Mrs Hudson’s hand and gently said, “I’m afraid Mary didn’t make it, Mrs Hudson. She died during surgery.”

Mrs Hudson’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.  She had liked Mary from the first moment and had taken her firmly into her heart, and when Emily was born, she had gladly taken on the role of an honorary grandmother.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Poor, poor John. And poor little Emily. Growing up without her Mummy, oh no!”  She snivelled a little, then reached for a handkerchief and resolutely blew her nose. “What’s to be done, Inspector?”

Greg smiled.  For all that Martha Hudson had started to look a little frail of late, she was made of sterner stuff.  Anyone who put up with Sherlock Holmes had to be.

“I assume Sherlock will stay by John’s side until his condition is stable, and he will also want to keep an eye on Emily. She’s in the paediatric ward for the time being, but she can’t remain there until John is released. I believe Mycroft will have John transferred to a private room in the hospital where a second bed and maybe even a play pen can be installed, but this can only be temporary.”

“And neither John nor Mary have relatives who can look after Emily until John is well enough to take her home with him.” She tapped her index finger to her lips, thinking. “Well then,” she said in a firm voice. “There is only one thing we can do. Sherlock has to bring Emily here. I will keep an eye on her, too. Just –”

“The state of the flat, yes, I know. Mycroft will take care of that. Well, not personally, of course,” they looked at each other and grinned because the idea of Mycroft Holmes scrubbing the floor of his brother’s flat was an absurdity, “but he will have it taken care of.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

“They have already reached a sort of agreement.”

“They have?” Mrs Hudson looked sceptical.  She had a strong opinion on the brothers’ relationship and there was little doubt where her loyalty lay, despite the fact that Greg, whom she liked and respected, had chosen the older Holmes to be his partner and seemed genuinely happy with him.

“You know the way they look at each other and you can tell they’re holding entire conversations?”

“Oh, you mean the Looks?” The capital ‘L’ was audible and Greg chuckled.

“Holmes speech, exactly. I think Sherlock knows what needs to be done.”

“The Holmes boys.” Mrs Hudson tut-tutted and it was that moment that Mycroft knocked on the door.

“May I come in, Mrs Hudson?”

“Of course you may, Mr Holmes. Did you find everything you needed?”

“I did, thank you. For all of the sad state the flat is in, my brother’s wardrobe is very well organized. I have packed enough to last him a week, and I have also taken the liberty of arranging for Dr Watson to be transferred to the hospital’s private facilities as soon as they’ve finished operating on him.”

Mrs Hudson and Greg exchanged a glance and Mrs Hudson made an approving sound.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s the least I can do. Besides, I doubt Sherlock will leave Dr Watson’s side and we know how that will turn out if the NHS facilities try and oppose him.”

They shared a moment of silence while each conjured up their own images of Sherlock throwing a tantrum at the Royal London Hospital, then Mycroft looked at Greg.

“Would you mind taking a taxi home? I would like to return to the hospital to drop the bag off and discuss a few things with my brother. In private.”

Greg accepted the silent apology in Mycroft’s eyes and nodded, not in the least offended.  Dealings with the Holmes brothers tended to be a little different, and he had long ceased to take things like this personally.  He stood up.

“Well, Mrs Hudson, I’m sorry for disturbing you that late at night but I thought you’d wish to be informed sooner rather than later. I will ring you up as soon as I have news, alright?”

“Thank you, dear, that would be kind.”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft said gently.

“Good night, Mr Holmes. Good night, Inspector.”

They made their way down the short flight of stairs and Mycroft waited until Greg had hailed a cab before he rang for his car to take him back to the hospital.

******

“Come!”

Greg opened the door to the office of the Crime Academy’s director and entered.

“Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent,” he said politely.

Stewart looked up from the pile of paper he had been leafing through and greeted him with a tight-lipped smile.

“Lestrade. Good afternoon. Have you considered my proposal?”

“I have, sir, and I would very much like to accept.”

“Ah!” The tense smile was replaced by a relieved expression. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I realize it’s not as fancy as catching the bad guys but we’ve already had to cancel two courses and frankly, it didn’t do our reputation any good.”

“I understand, sir. There is something I would like to discuss with you, if you have a moment to spare.”

“Certainly. Please, sit.” Stewart motioned towards the visitors' chairs and Greg sat down.

“I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately, and not only because Chief Superintendent Peterson approached me yesterday. I’ve come to really enjoy teaching and I think I may have a knack for it.”

“You do indeed. I’ve been hearing nothing but praise from the policemen and –women attending your lectures.” Stewart nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

“Well, I have never seen myself as the scholarly type. I do have a law degree, true, but it was hard for me to sit still and hit the books. I’m more the hands-on type. But preparing practice-based lectures and seminars is different from purely academic work,” he took a deep breath, “and if you have an opening, then I would like try my hand at teaching. Maybe on a part-time basis for a certain trial period, to see if this is such a good idea after all.”

Stewart leaned back in his chair.

“Peterson has not applied thumbscrews, has he?”

“No sir, he hasn’t.” Greg chuckled. “Well, he may have emphasized the urgency of me holding this particular course, but I can assure you, no pressure was exercised.”

“Good. That’s good. May I ask for the reason behind this decision? From what I understand, your division’s crime solve rate is above average, and you lead a motivated team. Your reputation is excellent and your career seems to be on a steady upward movement. Why such a sudden change of heart?”

“I’ve never been much of a career person, sir. I am proud to have reached the rank of DCI but I think there’s not much more I can achieve. I’m not very good at politics, and with all due respect, sir, the higher you get, the more politics will be waiting. I don’t think I’ll thrive in the thin air up there.”

Steward looked surprised. “Well, Lestrade, you certainly do speak your mind.”

“On a more personal level, sir, a friend of mine has just suffered a tragic loss, and while stepping down from active duty does not prevent accidents from happening, I couldn’t but think of my children and how I would like to be around for a little while longer. I’m not thinking of early retirement,” he hastened to add, “and I don’t view teaching as another way of putting my feet up...” he fell silent, angry at himself for failing to find the right words but Stewart seemed to understand nevertheless for he hummed thoughtfully.

“Thank you for being so open, Lestrade. It’s something I don’t get to see very often. Let me get the paperwork ready for you. I suggest you hold the upcoming IMSC course and we’ll talk about further opportunities afterwards. Agreed?”

Greg nodded, hoping he hadn’t blown his chances by blurting out like that, and Stewart continued, “DI Laura Thompson will be in touch shortly. She’s been teaching for three years and she will help you get started.”

“Thank you, sir.” Greg rose from his chair, sensing he was dismissed for now.

“No, thank you, Lestrade. Your offer is most welcome. Good afternoon, and good luck breaking the news to Peterson.”

“Good afternoon.”

******

Mycroft sat at his desk and toyed with his mobile phone.  An idea had formed in his head while he had been stuck in this morning’s weekly briefing, the voice of the Legal Advisor droning on and on, and he wondered for a moment whether he should consult with Greg before making this phone call.  He pursed his lips and with a swift motion set the phone swirling on the desk’s polished surface.  After a few more moments of contemplation he settled for a compromise and sent a brief text message to Greg.  He didn’t have to wait long for a reply and smiled.

_Great idea. Go ahead. --GL_

He scrolled through his contacts and dialled a number.  The call was connected immediately and a young female voice said a little breathlessly, “Hello Mycroft! How are you?”

“Hello Steph,” Mycroft replied affectionately. “I’m very well, thanks. How are you? Have I caught you at a bad time? You sound a little out of breath.”

“I’ve just missed my bus.”

“Sorry to hear that. Will you have to wait long?”

“No, the next one’s in a few minutes. What is it?”

“Doesn’t summer half term start soon?”

“Yes, next Saturday. Why?”

“Have you already made plans?”

“Not really. I have to prepare a paper and do some maths studies, but I’m all good with my marks. Why are you asking?”

“Do you think your mother would allow you to spend some time with us?”

“What, is my Dad not behaving well and I have to restore the Lestrade family name?” She laughed, and Mycroft laughed with her.  He had become fond of Greg’s children and was on comfortable terms with both Steph and her brother Chris.  They had even begun to turn to him for advice when they wanted an adult’s opinion but thought the matter unsuitable to discuss with their parents, which made Mycroft both happier and prouder than he would ever admit.

“I have no complaints. Your father is behaving exceedingly well. But I think I need your help in a somewhat delicate matter, Steph.”

“What? Doth mine ear deceive me? You need my help?”

“I do indeed. Your father told me you are an experienced babysitter. Is that true?”

“Why, yeah, I’ve babysat a couple of times.”

“Excellent. Listen, I have something of a proposal to make. My brother’s best friend has lost his wife in an accident, and Sherlock is godfather to his daughter. John – you met him at our wedding, do you remember? – is still at hospital and will remain there for quite a while, I’m afraid. Neither he nor his wife have a wide circle of friends or helpful relatives at hand to take care of little Emily and unless we come up with a practicable solution, I’m afraid the authorities will rush in –”

“No way,” Steph interrupted him. “How old is she?”

“She’s two.”

“Do you think Sherlock can take care of her? Does he have experience with small children?”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft stifled a laugh. “No, I don’t think he does. But he loves his goddaughter very much and from what I’ve heard, little Emily loves her Uncle Sherlock just as fiercely.”

“That’s a good start. I can teach him the rest. Is he very squeamish? He will have to change nappies, you see. Unless she's already fully potty-trained but I don't think so. Two's a bit early but maybe she has already started.”

“I can assure you, my brother has many flaws but squeamishness is not one of them.”

“Hm. Let me talk to Mum about it. Can I stay at your place?”

“Of course you can. What a silly question.”

“I was just thinking... what if Emily starts crying in the middle of the night? Will Sherlock know what to do?”

“Why would she cry in the middle of the night?”

“Mycroft!” Steph laughed. “That’s what little children do. They have a bad dream, or they are afraid of something moving in the shadows, or they need their nappy changed... so they cry.”

“Oh. Oh!” The implication of what he had just heard sank in and made a scenario appear on the horizon he didn’t want to see.

“You mean it would be wiser if you stayed with Sherlock until he has familiarised himself with the range of baby sounds?”

“Or they could stay with Dad and you.” Mycroft made a choked sound and Steph cheerfully continued, unaware of the horrors she had just summoned, “Your flat is big enough. Sherlock can either take up the guest room or sleep in Chris’ room. I can set up the baby phone in my room and wake Sherlock if necessary so he can learn what to do if Emily cries.”

“That is a great idea,” Mycroft managed with great self-discipline. “Listen, Steph, I have to go now. Talk this over with your mother, will you? As soon as you know whether you can come or not, let me know. Or phone your father. He supports the idea and I’m sure he would be happy to have you around for a few days.”

“Will do. Here’s my bus. Bye, Mycroft.”

“Bye, Steph. Your help would be much, much appreciated.”

“Sure. Bye.” She ended the call and Mycroft stared at the wall opposite his desk.  That was something he hadn’t considered.  How could this small but important detail have escaped his attention?  Of course it was impossible for Steph to stay at 221B, just as it was impossible to leave Sherlock alone with a toddler until he knew what to do and until the flat had been made childproof.

He shuddered to think what Sherlock would have to say to that, and the idea of staying under one roof with this brother filled his heart with childish despair.  He checked his agenda to see if there was anything scheduled that would require him to travel – with his deepest regrets and apologies, of course – but the following two weeks showed domestic obligations only.

With a heartfelt sigh he slumped against his chair and closed his eyes.  Sherlock and a toddler in his – and Greg’s – flat.  _Lord have mercy_.  The worst part, if it could get any worse, was his certainty that Greg would not oppose at all, quite the contrary.  Mycroft was fairly sure Greg would love the arrangement.  He huffed, half irritated, half amused.  No doubt Greg would conjure up more of Grandpère’s family recipes to make sure everybody was well-fed.

A brisk knock at the door made his mind snap back to attention.  No use in mulling over the things he had set in motion, there were matters of a more urgent nature to be dealt with.  He would not be alone in dealing with his brother, and he had no doubt Steph would keep Sherlock’s mind busy and focussed. 

Anthea stood on the doorstep, two folders in her hands.

“Mr Holmes, Sir John and Dr Henderson for you in Room 2.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” He stood and straightened his waistcoat.  Off to familiar shores. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

The train rolled into Waterloo Station with a delay of five minutes.  When it came to a halt with a screeching noise and the doors were flung open, Mycroft stepped back so as not to be run over by the seemingly endless stream of passengers emerging from the waggons.  Steph had texted him she was seated somewhere in the middle of the train so he had taken a strategically favourable position and was on the lookout for a mad mop of curly blond hair.

A young man in a slightly rumpled brown suit was lending a chivalrous hand to a slender teenage girl struggling with a trolley and travel bag and was rewarded with a beaming smile.  Just as he was about to express his hopes of seeing her again, he was cut off in mid-sentence by a silken voice coming from behind.

“That will be all. Thank you.”

The young man turned around indignantly but whatever he had planned to say got stuck on the tip of his tongue as his eyes met a haughty blue-and-grey stare.  His stunned gaze travelled along a tall gentleman impeccably dressed in a grey three piece suit, green tie subtly mirrored by a matching pocket square.  The haughty eyes moved away from him to the lovely creature who now regarded him with a mixture of amusement and pity and with his smooth voice the man said, “Good afternoon, Steph, I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, I did indeed. It was an agreeable half hour, thank you, Mycroft.” Stephanie Lestrade winked at Mycroft and turned to the young man. “Thanks for helping me with my luggage, Neil. That was very sweet of you.”

Neil stammered something and made a hasty retreat.  Steph giggled and looked up at Mycroft. “You could have been a little less intimidating,” she said sternly but her quivering voice gave her away. “Looming over him and all. He was trying to be a gentleman.”

“He was ogling you. Checking you up, as your father would say,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Nobody ogles Greg’s daughter in my presence.”  He adjusted the handle of her trolley to his height and took her travel bag. “Shall we? I have a car waiting outside the station.”

“That is a great suit you’re wearing,” Steph reached out and touched the fine material appreciatively. “I love the fabric. Is it 10 or 11 ounce wool-silk mix?”

Mycroft looked down into her concentrated face and replied, with just a hint of amusement in his voice, “I believe it is a 10 ounce mix but you would have to ask my tailor. As it happens, I have an appointment tomorrow morning...” He made a dramatic pause and wasn’t disappointed.

“May I come with you? Please?” Huge brown eyes were lifted up to meet his and he grinned.  The Lestrades and their puppy eyes.  Impossible to say no.  Not that he would have said no to Steph when it came to a request as harmless as this; otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned the appointment with his tailor.

“Of course you may. Mr O’Reilly had some very kind words for you after your last visit. I’m fairly certain he will not mind your presence during the fitting.”

“You won’t mind either?”

“Not at all. I need to have some of my coats and waistcoats adjusted. I believe I have slimmed down a little,” he said proudly and immediately asked himself why he would confide such a personal detail to a teenage girl.  Steph, however, had not only inherited her father’s deep brown eyes but also his knack for making people feel at ease in her presence, and so she approvingly said, “I thought you looked slimmer around the waist, too. Not that you really needed to lose weight, you’ve always looked fab, but I noticed.”  She took her travel bag from his hand and linked arms with him. “Is Dad keeping you in shape, then?”

“Steph!” He looked a little scandalized but found he couldn’t resist her mischievous smile and so he replied primly, “Let’s just say I’m in better shape now than I was before I met him.”

Her smile deepened and she gave his arm a squeeze. “I was only teasing you, Mycroft.”

“I know.”

Outside the station, Jeremy was waiting by Mycroft’s sleek black limousine and after shaking hands with Steph, he put her luggage into the generous boot and held the door open with a smile.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” she said cheerfully and climbed in after Mycroft. 

******

The next day, Greg knocked on the door to John’s room, having nodded his greetings to the security guard sitting on a chair next to the door, listened and when he heard nothing, signalled Steph to wait outside, quietly opened it and stepped inside.  He froze when he took in the sight before his eyes.

Both John and Sherlock were asleep.  Sherlock had pulled the visitor’s chair as close to John’s bed as possible and lay with his head next to John’s ribcage, his right arm flung across his friend’s chest.  John’s right hand, the one that had the drip-feeding needle in it, was buried in Sherlock’s curls, while his left, pulse oximeter attached to the index finger, had come to lie on Sherlock’s elbow.  Greg felt he had barged in on something utterly intimate and made a hasty, yet quiet retreat.  A soft cooing sound from the direction of Emily’s little bed made him pause for a split-second but John’s daughter seemed to be content exploring something that looked like a plush DNA strand, and so he closed the door very, very quietly.

“They’re asleep,” he whispered, then cleared his throat and said in a more normal tone, “Let’s go to the cafeteria and grab a bite. I need a coffee.”

“Asleep? Really? All three of them?” Steph asked but followed her father along the corridor. “I can’t imagine Sherlock asleep.”  She had met him only once, during her father’s and Mycroft’s wedding, and while he had been on surprisingly good behaviour, he had still seemed restless and impatient.

“He does sleep. A few hours every now and then,” Greg assured her. “He’s hardly been away from John’s side, and the atmosphere of a sick room is not precisely stimulating.”

“They’re really good friends, John and Sherlock, yes?”

“They are,” Greg confirmed. “They have both killed to protect the other, and I have no doubt they would die for each other, too.” He shot a quick glance at his daughter. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m dead serious.”

“Wow,” Steph said, visibly impressed. “And they got away with it? Killing, I mean?”

“Let’s just say, John’s kill could never be traced back to him for sure, and the other –” he hesitated, “well, Sherlock has paid dearly for that one. Mycroft made sure of that.”

They reached the cafeteria.  Steph studied the food on display and wrinkled her nose.  After a few moments of contemplation she settled for tea and a blueberry muffin, and Greg picked a pasta dish, as small salad and a soft drink.

“You’re not hungry, chit?”

“I had an early lunch with Mycroft.”

“Oh, I see. Lunch with Mycroft. No wonder you look down on a humble cafeteria meal with your poor old Da,” he said with a wink, and Steph huffed.

“Don’t be stupid, Dad. I’m really not that hungry, and the food here looks disgusting.”  She gave his tray a critical look. “Well, at least you can tell it’s noodles, and the salad looks alright.”

“Thank you, dear,” Greg said meekly. “Now, while I insult my taste buds with cafeteria food, will you tell me about your morning with Uncle Mycroft?”

He started eating, and Steph started talking.  Greg listened with amusement as Steph went on about fabric and cutting and seams and stitches and Mr O’Reilly, Mycroft’s tailor, the epitome of taste and elegance, and Mycroft himself, so easy to dress, so handsome and so witty, “... and Dad, have you noticed he has lost quite some inches in the waist? He’s got a really nice V-shape now, you know, very elegant, not beefy or anything. Mr O’Reilly suggested trying a new waistcoat style, you’re gonna love it, it sets off his shape really nicely...”

Greg’s thoughts wandered off for a moment.  Oh, but had he ever noticed Mycroft’s waist slimming down!  He had been concerned for a while and had started to watch Mycroft’s eating habits really closely, but nothing seemed off, no sudden trips to the toilet just after eating, no picking about his plate.  Instead, the combination of regular meals, regular sex and regular use of his treadmill seemed to agree with the older Holmes, and Greg never failed to demonstrate his appreciation by kissing his way from the freckles he loved so much down to biting and nibbling from one hipbone to the other...  Something Steph had just said yanked him out of his brief daydream.

“What was that?”

“I said,” his daughter repeated patiently, “Mr O’Reilly offered a 3 week work experience to me. During my summer break,” she added.

“Do they do that? I mean, they’re elite tailors, yes? Don’t you have to go to college before you can even set foot into their hallowed studios?”

“Well, if you want to apply for an apprenticeship it would be better to have a Newham college diploma in bespoke tailoring.” She shot her father a glance from underneath long lashes and he braced himself. “But if you’re really lucky, you get a shot for one of the few work experience placements.”

“Did Mycroft have to do anything with his?”

“Only in so far as he took me to the fitting. I did the rest all by myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Greg said drily.  Steph could be very persistent if she set her heart to something.

“Well, I happened to have my portfolio with me.”

“Your portfolio?”

“Photos of clothes I’ve made. And I was wearing a dress I made for myself. The green one, you know.”

“I see. Very clever. So Mr O’Reilly was impressed?”

“I think so. But I was lucky as well because the woman who had originally landed the work experience had just phoned in that very morning because she’s pregnant and needed to cancel. I mean,” she rolled her eyes dramatically, “how can you do that? That’s really stupid, to throw away a chance at a career like that.”

“Maybe she decided she’d rather be a mother than a seamstress?”

“Seamstress? Dad!” Steph looked horrified. “I’m talking bespoke tailoring! That’s like calling Mycroft…,” she groped for words.

“… a minor government official,” Greg supplied helpfully and smiled at his daughter. “Well, I humbly apologize, Stephanie.” He checked his watch. “Let’s go and see if the Watsons and Sherlock are awake by now. Time for you to meet Emily.”

He returned the tray and they made their way back to John’s room.  Greg rapped resolutely against the door and Sherlock’s deep voice boomed, “Come!”

They stepped inside.  Sherlock sat on the visitor’s chair right next to John’s bed, long legs propped up on a second chair, bouncing Emily on his knees.  The little girl crowed happily and with her small hands held on to his while John sat in an upright position, two extra pillows supporting him, and watched them with a smile. 

“Hello John,” Greg said cheerfully. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock only nodded and continued to make faces at Emily, but John returned the greeting.

“Hello Greg, nice to see you.” He made an effort to peer around him. “Is that your daughter hiding behind you?”

Steph walked up from behind her father and carefully shook the offered hand. “Yes, it’s me, Steph. Hello John.”

John smiled at her. “Hi Steph. I hope I won’t offend you when I say you certainly have grown up since I last saw you.”  The skinny girl he had met at the wedding of Greg and Mycroft had mainly consisted of arms and legs and a blond mane, but the teenager standing next to his bed was about to grow into a beautiful young woman, graceful and slender.  Steph blushed a little but returned his smile.

“Thank you. How’s your leg?”

John made a face. “It hurts like hell, to be honest, and I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here for quite a while. Greg says you’re going to try and teach Sherlock how to be an even better uncle?”

Sherlock huffed at that but kept rocking Emily on his knees.  Steph looked at them and her smile deepened.  “I don’t think that’s necessary. But I can help him deal with basic baby needs, if he allows.”  Sherlock looked up sharply, narrowed his eyes and let his gaze sweep over her.  Greg held his breath and braced himself but before Sherlock had the chance to open his mouth and say whatever he had intended to say, John coughed.

“Sherlock, why don’t you introduce Emily and Steph.”

Much to Greg’s surprise, Sherlock obeyed, cradled Emily in his arm, stood up and politely said, “Steph, it’s good to see you again. This is Emily. Emily,” he pointed at Steph, “this is Steph, Greg’s daughter. She will teach me how to change your nappies properly and how to prepare your food so I can look after you while your Daddy’s at hospital.”

Emily had her huge blue eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face but when he shifted so she could look at Steph, she reached out as if to touch Steph’s blond hair.

“Would you like to hold her?” Sherlock offered a little stiffly and Steph nodded. “I would love to. If it’s alright?” She looked at John.  He smiled encouragingly.

“Sure. She seems to like you.”

Steph held out her arms and Sherlock handed Emily to her, if a little reluctantly.

“Hello there, Emily,” Steph said softly.  Emily babbled something and reached for Steph’s necklace.  “Very good taste,” Steph laughed. “I made this myself. Do you like it?”

She sat down with Emily in her arms and started chatting cheerful nonsense while Emily inspected necklace, earrings and blond hair with an intent look on her small face.  Sherlock shot Steph another of his scrutinizing stares but seemed to come to a satisfactory conclusion, so he sank down on the chair next to John’s bed.  Greg pulled up the third chair and gave John a searching look.  Despite the smile on his face, John looked grief-stricken and his eyes held a kind of sadness that Greg had not wanted to see on him ever again.  He groped for something to say that didn’t sound too trivial but decided otherwise, cleared his throat and came straight to the point.

“So, what do you think about staying at our place for a while, Sherlock?”

“Given the fact that my brother will not be travelling, I would rather sleep on Mrs Hudson’s doorstep until my flat has been declared child-proof. But,” he sighed dramatically, “for Emily’s sake I shall strive to behave.”

“Thank you, Sherlock, I’m relieved to hear that,” Greg let just a touch of sarcasm creep into his voice. “Mycroft has promised the same, so I can take it there will be no knife throwing or poisoned arrows flying about?” Sherlock didn’t grace this remark with a reply so he continued, “The guest room has already been made up for you but we haven’t decided yet whether Emily should sleep in your room or in Steph’s.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had just suggested Emily were to sleep in a corner in the building’s main entrance.

“She will sleep in my room, obviously. I will need to learn all about her habits, the sounds she makes, the sleeping position she prefers, and when she wakes up in the middle of the night I want to find out whether I should read to her, or carry her around, or maybe play the violin for her.”

“The violin? In the middle of the night?” Greg closed his eyes for a moment.  Mycroft would be so underwhelmed and he hoped with every fibre of his heart that Emily would respond well to being carried around, or would be lulled back to sleep by the sound of Sherlock’s voice.  He looked up just in time to catch Sherlock’s smirk. “You are aware that John’s daughter is not one of your experiments, right?”

“Of course she isn’t!” Sherlock seemed genuinely offended at such a notion and just as Greg relaxed a little, he continued, “Mycroft’s patience is something else entirely. I wonder if he’s still such a light sleeper or whether having you around has made him a little less sensitive to noise.”

“Sherlock!” John and Greg said simultaneously, and even Steph switched her attention from Emily to the three men for a moment.  Sherlock shrugged dismissively and John reached for his arm.

“Sherlock, please,” he pleaded. “Please. For once, will you behave and not get into a fight with your brother? You know I can’t keep Emily here for the rest of my stay and there’s no-one else I trust with my daughter. I don’t want the authorities to place her in somebody else’s care until I’m well enough. Please, will you do this for me?”

Being around Sherlock for over ten years had sharpened Greg’s observational skills, if not to Holmes level, then remarkably well by any other account, and so he didn’t miss the look that passed between John and Sherlock and that’s when he suddenly realized that while John looked sad, he didn’t look _lost_.  Greg remembered all too well how empty John’s eyes had been after Sherlock had jumped, how devoid of life and, well, lost and lonely.  He wasn’t lost now, and he certainly wasn’t lonely. 

Sherlock seemed to feel Greg’s eyes on him and raised his chin in defiance as if daring him to say something.  Greg held his gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly.  He leaned back in his chair.

“Well, how are we to handle this? Any ideas?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said with a touch of irritation, “don’t even pretend to be oblivious to my brother’s plans. I’m sure he’s already sent his minions out on their mission.”

Greg chuckled. “I was trying to strike up a discussion, for appearance’s sake. Besides, I thought you two had an understanding.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, just a little, and made a rude noise.

“If that's what you call my brother swooping down on me with a detailed schedule in his claws then yes, we have an understanding. Quite frankly I’m surprised he has even bothered to share his thoughts with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock,” Greg said, beginning to feel exasperated. “Of course he would involve you. If not for you, he couldn’t be arsed with all of this. No offense, John,” he added hastily, with a guilty look towards John who shrugged his shoulders.

“None taken. You know perfectly well that Mycroft and I will never become best friends. But tell him I really appreciate his help. And I mean it. I’m grateful. Really.”

 

When Greg and Steph left, it was agreed that Emily would stay with John for another night while Sherlock went to 221B to pack a few things and to stow his beloved microscope and various other instruments safely away, and to decide which of his current experiments absolutely needed to stay and which could be disposed of (“remember there’ll be a small child in that flat, and you will not store her food next to a decomposing skull, Sherlock!” John had said in a very stern voice and Sherlock had nodded meekly and promised to make Emily’s well-being his top priority).

On their way home, they stopped at a supermarket and bought some groceries to cater for their needs as well as Emily’s.  Mycroft was already at home when they arrived, claiming he had brought some files with him that he could work on before dinner was ready, but his briefcase remained locked, as did his laptop.  Instead, he hooked Steph’s laptop and mobile phone up to their WiFi and persuaded her to have both devices professionally checked for security lapses by one of his IT staff while she stayed with them.

Greg listened to them chat and laugh while he prepared dinner.  In moments like this, he felt very much like pinching himself to check whether all this was but a dream and he would wake up all by himself in his small flat only to start yet another day at the Met.  Instead, not only had his children accepted the fact that their father was now married to another man, but they had welcomed Mycroft into their inner circle with a natural ease that Greg had never dared expect. 

While neither Mycroft nor Greg denied their relationship or lied about being married, they didn’t shout it from the rooftops.  Same-sex marriages had become legalized but unfortunately the public mind was a slow one to adapt, and their jobs being what they were with certain security issues to be taken into consideration, they tended to keep their private life as private as possible. 

Steph giggled at something, Mycroft’s low chuckle joined her and Greg shook his head and continued slicing the chicken breast into four even cutlets.  He coated them with olive oil and seasoned them with salt and pepper, placed them into the grill pan and checked the baking sheet that contained the kale and potatoes.  When the kale was crisp and the potatoes tender and the meat cooked through, he transferred the meat to the plates he had laid out, tossed kale, potatoes, salad greens, tomatoes and parmesan into a large bowl and added some olive oil, salt and pepper.  He gave a shrill whistle.

“Mycroft! Steph! Dinner is ready!”

He grinned when both hurried into the kitchen to fetch their plates.  Mycroft had taken his jacket and tie off and Greg suddenly remembered what Steph had told him about Mycroft having developed a ‘really nice V-shape’.  Said V-shape was exquisitely accentuated by a well-fitted waistcoat and crisp striped shirt, and Greg admired the snug fit of tailored trousers on Mycroft’s firm backside.  Mycroft caught him looking and raised one of his arrogant eyebrows but Greg merely winked in return and mouthed ‘Dessert’, gave his bum a pointed stare and counted on Mycroft’s ability to read lips.  He grinned smugly when he saw a treacherous blush creep up his partner’s neck.

Dinner was accompanied by lively conversation with Steph making plans how to turn Sherlock into the perfect babysitter and Mycroft drawing up schemes to stay at his office for as late as possible.  Making 221B child-proof was unlikely to take very long – it wasn’t a huge flat after all – and he expressed his hopes that Sherlock’s stay at his and Greg’s flat wouldn’t actually last the whole week.

“But that doesn’t mean I will have to leave, too, does it?” Steph asked anxiously.

“Nonsense,” came Mycroft’s immediate reply. “It’s a pleasure to have you around. My brother, on the other hand, is something else entirely.”

“Why? I like him. He loves little Emily and she loves him right back, and he must be a really good friend, or else John wouldn’t leave his baby girl with him. He can’t be that bad.”

“He’s not actually a bad person,” Mycroft admitted. “But he can be trying, to say the least.”

“They’re brothers, Steph,” Greg reminded her. “Mycroft’s the uber-protector, and Sherlock’s the annoying little sod. That’s how it is and how it always will be.”

Mycroft didn’t object to Greg’s characterization of his and Sherlock’s relationship and Steph said with heartfelt relief, “I am so glad I don’t have a younger sister. An older brother is so much easier to handle.” Her mobile chirped, as if on cue.  She picked it up and frowned. “Oh, speaking of which. I have a Skype appointment with Chris now. Do you mind?”

Greg shook his head. “Not at all, chit. Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.” She got up and turned to leave, then changed her mind and kissed Greg’s cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Dad.” She walked around the table and kissed Mycroft’s cheek, too. “Thanks for taking me to see Mr O Reilly. You’re the best!”

Her mobile went off and she answered the call with a cheerful, “Attaboy!” and dashed across the hallway into her room. 

“Attaboy,” Greg chuckled and looked at Mycroft who sat frozen with a stunned expression. “What is it?”

“Why did she do that?”

“What?”

“She’s never kissed me before.”

“She hero-worships you. So does Chris. I should be jealous, you know. If it hadn’t been for you, Chris would never have changed schools, his marks wouldn’t have skyrocketed and I doubt he’d ever entered Cambridge, at least not that quickly. And if it weren’t for you and your expensive suits, I bet Steph would still be torn between sewing and cooking. She’s got her mind set on Savile Row, from what she told me this afternoon.”

“And she should. O’Reilly was not unimpressed by what she showed him. It’s quite a privilege to be granted a work experience with him. Bespoke tailoring is still a man’s domain and I think it’s time they allowed more female cutters into their inner circle.”

They had taken the dishes and the remains of their dinner back into the kitchen and Mycroft began loading the dishwasher while Greg put the rest of the food away.  When Greg was done, he caught Mycroft touching his cheek with a look of lingering disbelief.

“Come on,” he teased him. “You should know by now that the Lestrades love you. How could we not?”

Mycroft gave an embarrassed little huff and opened his mouth but Greg resolutely kissed him before he could say anything.

“Quiet. The young Lestrades think you’re cool. The old Lestrade thinks you’re hot.” He curled his hands around Mycroft’s hips and pulled him closer. “I’m going to take a shower now. Care to join me?”

Mycroft gave him a slightly scandalized look. “With your daughter just a few footsteps away? Certainly not. Besides, I must make a few phone calls.”

“But she’s not a little girl anymore and knows better than to barge into a bathroom that is occupied,” Greg pointed out but Mycroft stubbornly raised his chin and looked at him along his long nose.  Greg sighed. “Oh well. Off you go then.” He reluctantly let go of Mycroft’s hips. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Maybe I’m still awake by the time your phone calls are finished.”

“I should hope so.” Mycroft brushed his knuckles gently against Greg’s stubbled cheek, then went to fetch his briefcase and laptop and disappeared into his study.  Greg heaved another deep sigh and headed for the bedroom, snatched both his grey jersey shorts and Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms and t-shirt and went to take a shower.  He toyed with the idea of quickly tossing off but decided against it, not having given up hope of getting the kind of dessert he wanted.  Instead, he towelled himself off, put his shorts on and padded back into the bedroom, flung his worn clothes into the laundry basket, grabbed the remote control, piled the pillows up until he was comfortable and started flipping through the channels.

He was watching Frodo battle Gollum for the ring when the bedroom door opened and Mycroft stepped inside, wearing the pyjama bottoms and shirt Greg had put into the bathroom for him, his suit carefully draped over his arm. 

“Hello, my preciousss,” Greg greeted him. “Glad you got the message and changed into something more comfortable before coming in.”

“Preciousss?” Mycroft looked at the screen. “Ah, I see. _One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_.”

It had come as something of a surprise to find out that Mycroft Holmes of all people was amongst those who religiously read _The Lord of the Rings_ once a year.  Mycroft didn’t read a lot of fiction but he didn’t get tired of reading about hobbits and elves and dwarves and Tom Bombadil and was able to quote entire paragraphs to Greg who liked the movies well enough but found the books boring, a fact that Mycroft found too shocking to put into words.

Mycroft went into their generous walk-in closet to hang suit and tie up and Greg watched with interest as lean muscles shifted with fluid movements.  While he wasn’t a born athlete and would never sport an impressive physique, Mycroft possessed a natural elegance for which Greg both admired and envied him, and his somewhat regular workout had added muscle and shape to his long legs and upper body.  Greg’s blood started to pool south and he idly touched himself, glad he had not given in to temptation under the shower.  He got off the bed with the intention to sneak up on Mycroft who, naturally, caught his reflection in the mirror but didn’t turn around.  Instead, he stretched as if to reach something on the top shelf and the hem of his t-shirt lifted to reveal pale skin, a flat belly and a trail of dark auburn hair.  Greg gave up his attempt at sneaking, placed his hands possessively on Mycroft’s slim hips, pressed his face against the back of his neck and inhaled deeply.

“You smell good,” he murmured.

“Eucalyptus and rosemary.”

“Huh? Been rolling in the herb garden?”

Mycroft chuckled and leaned back against Greg’s chest.  “Only if you rolled with me.” 

Warm hands slid under his shirt and he lifted his arms obligingly.  The shirt was pulled over his head and tossed to the floor and he watched in the mirror as Greg’s hands travelled across his chest, along his ribs, following the trail of hair down to the waistband.  Greg put his chin on a freckled shoulder and when his eyes met Mycroft’s in the mirror, he pressed himself against delightfully firm buttocks and teased one finger along the waistband.  Mycroft shifted his stance and slid his hands behind and backwards so he could place them on Greg’s tight bum and pull him closer.  He hissed when Greg’s fingers first outlined his rapidly hardening prick and then cupped him through his pyjama bottoms.  Greg’s low chuckle vibrated against his back and he rolled his hips against Mycroft who stifled a moan and pressed himself into Greg’s hand.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” Greg said hoarsely. “You and your pornographic waistcoats and hot shirts will be the death of me.”

“Pornographic waistcoats?” Mycroft echoed and Greg confirmed, “Pornographic. Indecent.” He licked between Mycroft’s shoulderblades and was rewarded with a gasp. “Highlighting your V-shape in a most provocative manner.”

“V-shape?” Mycroft’s brain had to be shutting down because normally he loathed pointless repetitions.  Greg grinned and repeated patiently, “V-shape. That’s what Steph called it. Nice V-shape, she said. And was she ever right.”

“Oh God, Steph!” Mycroft choked out and started as if to pull away but Greg held him in place.

“It’s highly unlikely she’ll want to crawl into Daddy’s bed because she’s had a bad dream. I told you before, she’s a big girl now. We just need to be silent, s’all.”

The tall frame went rigid, just a bit, but Greg sighed and tore himself away reluctantly.  He walked over to the bedroom door and turned the key.

“See? Safe now. Come here, you silly Holmes.”  He crooked his finger and beckoned.  Mycroft still looked a bit doubtful, the battle of desire and propriety visible on his features, but he moved towards Greg as if attracted by a powerful magnet, which was closer to the truth than not.  Greg snatched one of his hands and hauled him close.

“Where were we?” He put his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and stepped up to him until skin touched skin. “Ah yes, I remember.”  One of his hands moved down Mycroft’s spine and disappeared beneath the waistband to land on a bum cheek while the other one curled around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss.  For a fraction of a second, Mycroft stiffened in weak protest but his mouth opened eagerly to let Greg’s teasing tongue inside, and when Greg aligned their erections with a not-so-subtle shift of his hips, all thoughts of Stephanie Lestrade’s potential embarrassment were firmly pushed aside.

Greg found himself manoeuvred towards their big bed, and when he hit the edge with the back of his knees, he simply tumbled backwards, pulling Mycroft with him.  They remained in that uncomfortable position for a few moments, lost in the sensation of their tongues battling for domination and their pricks rubbing against each other, then Mycroft broke the kiss with a muttered curse.

“We need to slide up or else I’m going to break my back,” he explained when Greg frowned questioningly.  They shuffled up the bed until they were able to stretch out properly.  Greg reached for the remote control and switched the TV off, not interested in the coronation of Aragorn and certainly not interested in another lecture on the insignificance of the romance between Aragorn and Arwen.  Mycroft threw one of his long legs over Greg’s hips and twisted so Greg came to lie on top of him.  He put his hands on his buttocks and squeezed.  Greg replied with a barely suppressed moan and claimed Mycroft’s mouth for a thorough kiss.  Mycroft’s hips jerked involuntarily up and he responded by rubbing against him.  Rutting like teenagers was not what he had in mind, however, and so he slowly slid down his partner’s tall frame, kissing and nibbling his way along the delicious throat that was offered to him when Mycroft flung his head back in invitation, moved down to his chest, paused to gently bite a pale nipple and tease it with his tongue, eliciting goose bumps and earning a gasp that made him move to the other nipple and repeat what he had just done.  His left hand glided lightly over chesthair and followed its course to where it disappeared into the waistband.  He curled his hand around a pale flank and followed the path his hand had taken with his lips.  When he hooked his fingers into the waistband of the dark green pyjama bottoms, he looked up into Mycroft’s face and grinned mischievously.

“Last chance to say stop, Holmes,” he said in a voice that sounded like rich, smoky whisky and chuckled when Mycroft's blue-and-grey eyes fluttered close and his hands were flung above his head in a gesture of utter surrender.  “Smart man,” he said approvingly and pulled the bottoms down slowly.  Mycroft helpfully lifted his hips so Greg could dispose of the annoying layer of clothing and feast his eyes on the sight of Mycroft’s impressive erection instead.  Seeing the otherwise reserved and cautious man like this, naked, exposed and trusting, still filled his heart with joy and gratitude, and a not-very-small portion of possessive pride.  He lowered his head and brought his mouth to the velvety balls, teasing them with his tongue and carefully sucking one into his mouth.  A deep, throaty moan escaped Mycroft and he hastily covered his mouth with his hands, remembering they were not alone in their flat.  Greg let go and laughed softly, his breath ticklish against sensitive skin and Mycroft all but growled at him.

“I will get you back for this, Lestrade!”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

“Good.”

He lowered his head and licked along the thick shaft, swirled his tongue lazily around the crown and teased the slit with the tip of his tongue until Mycroft pressed a fist to his mouth and jerked his hips up helplessly.  Greg took pity and swallowed Mycroft’s length inch by agonizing inch until his nose was buried in dark auburn pubic hair.  The heady scent of Mycroft’s arousal shot straight into his own cock and he moaned around the silken hardness.  Mycroft fisted the blanket and heroically tried to suppress the sounds welling up inside him.  Greg slowly pulled back, stroking the underside of Mycroft’s prick with his tongue and sucked on the head before taking him all the way back in.  It wasn’t long before Mycroft grabbed a handful of Greg’s salt and pepper hair, urging him to stop.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, no more. I want to look into your eyes when I come.”

Greg reluctantly let go of Mycroft’s cock.  With a swift movement he removed his own pants and stretched to reach for the bedside table.  He fished the lube bottle out of the drawer and straddled Mycroft’s thighs.

“Hand,” he commanded and Mycroft obeyed immediately.  Greg tilted the bottle and squirted a generous amount on Mycroft’s palm, threw the bottle carelessly to the side and lowered himself until their erections were aligned. “Slick us up and hold us together.” His voice was hoarse with need and his prick started to throb in anticipation.  A slow smile curved Mycroft’s lips and he brought his palms together so both were covered in lube.  He curled one hand around Greg and the other around himself and coated their cocks with the thick gel.  Greg looked down at the elegant fingers encircling his shaft and grit his teeth.  It took all of his willpower to not start pumping, especially when Mycroft tightened his grip with a grin.  Greg had never made a secret of the hand fetish he had developed, and Mycroft knew the exact amount of pressure it took to send his partner over the edge.

“Around both of us. Now,” Greg panted and watched as Mycroft wrapped his hand around their cocks, looking up at Greg with eyes darkened by lust and licked his lips.  Greg lowered his head and claimed Mycroft’s straight lips for a leisurely kiss before he rolled his hips and started thrusting.  For a while, the only sounds that filled the room was the soft smacking noise of a lube-slicked fist pumping two cocks simultaneously and heavy breathing.  Mycroft lifted his head and licked along the strong column of Greg’s neck, then latched his lips to his throat, applying enough suction not to leave a mark but make Greg inhale sharply with clenched teeth.  Greg lifted his upper body and shifted a little so his weight was mainly supported by his left arm, reached down between them and covered Mycroft’s hand with his right, making Mycroft hiss and jerk his hips up.  Greg looked down and watched their cockheads vanish and reappear from the grip that held them together.  This time, he could not hold the moan back from his throat.  A small whimpering sound told him that Mycroft was looking, too, and he laughed breathlessly.  Their eyes met and their thrusting picked up speed, the sensation of cock sliding against cock and balls brushing against balls overwhelming their senses. 

“Greg, please, I’m sorry, oh God,” Mycroft panted. “Tighter, please.”

Greg strengthened his grip on Mycroft’s hand, on their pricks, and he muffled Mycroft’s moan by bringing their mouths together.  He felt him twitch and pulse, and hot jets shot over their hands and covered their bellies and chests with white stripes.  He didn’t last much longer and after a few more erratic thrusts spent himself on Mycroft, adding to the sticky mess already on his upper body, but Mycroft didn’t seem to mind one bit.  Instead, he pulled him down, wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, slow and soft and deep.

“I love you,” Greg sighed contentedly and slid down a little so he could put his head on Mycroft’s chest.  Long fingers drew circles between his shoulder blades and he closed his eyes in bliss.

“And I love you, you irresistible creature.” The velvety voice was a caress of its own. “But I wonder whether you might be willing to move so we can, uhm, clean up a little? Being covered in dried semen is not how I want to wake up tomorrow.”

Greg snorted but shifted so he came to lie beside Mycroft. “Well, if you’re willing to go to the bathroom to fetch a wet towel, please do. I don’t care whether Steph has caught a sound or two although I think she’s still on the ‘net with her earplugs in place and wouldn’t hear the door being kicked open. But like hell I’m crossing the hallway looking like that. She probably figures we’re having sex every now and then but she doesn’t need to see me covered in evidence.”

Mycroft got up and went to the walk-in closet.  Greg watched his bum cheeks flex and relax and despite his current spent state enjoyed the memory of how that delightful arse felt against his hips.  He started when a damp towel landed on his chest.

“What the…?” He looked up into a smug face. “Where does that come from?”

“I thought it would be wise to take certain precautions when I was finished in the shower. I was fairly certain you would insist on dessert,” an eyebrow was arched up, “and potential embarrassment of your daughter wouldn’t be on your list of worries.”

“Damn right.” Greg took the towel and cleaned himself. “I was thinking to be good but your pornographic waistcoat was too much of a temptation. And like I said, she’s probably on the internet anyway.” He threw the towel back at Mycroft who caught it and cleaned his smeared chest and belly, then placed the soiled towel neatly on the small stool next to the door and climbed back into bed.  Greg immediately inched closer, put his head back on Mycroft’s chest and sighed when he resumed caressing his shoulders with featherlight touches.

“So tell me, how is John Watson holding up?”

Greg frowned. “I think he’s healing nicely, physically, that is. I mean, I didn’t check his medical records but from what I’ve seen, they’re treating him well and he’s not in too much pain.”

“And otherwise?”

“Well, I think –” he paused, uncertain whether he should tell Mycroft about that strangely intimate scene he had witnessed and the thoughts that had been gnawing at him ever since.

“Mhm?”

“Myc, do you think, I mean I’m probably imagining things, but…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Sherlock loves John?” Greg blurted out and when silence followed his words, he wished he had kept his mouth shut and his idiotic theory to himself.  He didn’t dare look at Mycroft, fearing he had made a major fool of himself and wouldn’t hear the end of it.

Instead, Mycroft cleared his throat and said without even a hint of mockery in his voice,

“Of course he does. Has for a long time. With all of his heart.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. Real life, crazy workload and such.
> 
> SPOILER WARNING for Downton Abbey - this chapter has references to Downton Abbey, Series 3. Those of you who haven't watched it yet might learn something you don't want to know yet. SORRY - and thanks to Lena221B for pointing it out to me.

“You sure?”

Greg raised his head and stared incredulously at Mycroft who looked down at him with mild surprise.

“Of course I am. He’s my brother.”

“But how – I mean, has he told you?”

Mycroft snorted and Greg stifled a grin.  The Mycroft he had met all those years ago would never have considered making a noise as vulgar as that, but the Mycroft who now shared both his bed and his life wasn’t above the occasional vulgarity any longer, quite the contrary.  This Mycroft Holmes knew how to turn the air blue.  And didn’t that turn Greg on.  Just a little.

“He most certainly hasn’t. A Holmes doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.”

“Unlike a Lestrade, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that,” Mycroft replied stiffly. “Sometimes you're on guard, too. At least while you’re on duty, and to people who don’t know you very well.”

“Thank you. So. Sherlock and John.”

“What about them?”

Greg groaned. “Come on now, you can’t feed me such a tiny morsel and then leave it at that.”

“There’s nothing to add.”

“There isn’t?”

“No. Sherlock loves John Watson but I don’t think he’s ever acted on it.” Mycroft chewed on his lower lip and continued, “It will be interesting to see what happens now that there is no Mrs Watson anymore.”

“But Sherlock, I mean, has he ever been in a relationship?”

“Not that I know of, at least not in one that’s worth mentioning.”

“So he isn’t… ah –,“ Greg was groping for a tactful word but Mycroft completed his sentence for him.

“– a virgin? Certainly not. Don’t be absurd. He’s in his late thirties. You don’t seriously assume he’s never had sex before.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem awfully interested. I don’t even know whether he fancies blokes or women.”

“He doesn’t believe in labelling. And he won’t let his libido dominate his brain.”

“Unlike his older brother.” Greg grinned and shuffled closer.

“Exactly like me,” Mycroft corrected. “Or rather, like me until the day a silver fox came along, with huge brown eyes and the disturbing ability to distract me. And I know I shouldn’t have said that because you will be unbearably smug about it.” He chuckled when a wet kiss was planted on his upper arm, and slid down until they were at eye level with each other. “Now, given the fact that we will soon be enjoying the company of my dear brother, along with baby Watson, it’s fairly safe to assume that we won’t be having much privacy for the next few days. Care to find out if we can go for a second round?”

Greg narrowed his eyes as if in deep thought. “You know I’m fifty and lucky enough if I can perform once a week, right?”

“Right.” Their eyes met and Mycroft’s smile wrinkles deepened. “I have yet to see you fail to, uh, deliver. I shudder to think what you must have been like in your twenties. So come on, there’s life in you yet, old man. We can take it slow.” He yelped when Greg poked a finger into his ticklish spot.

“Old man, huh? Must I remind you that you yourself are on the wrong side of the forties?” He licked across Mycroft’s collarbone and placed his index finger across his lips when Mycroft gave a soft moan. “Must I also remind you we have a visitor? So – ssshh. Not a sound.”

******

The next day, Sherlock showed up with Emily during the early evening hours, as agreed.  Timothy, one of Mycroft’s personal drivers, had already delivered a duffle bag earlier that afternoon so all Sherlock carried was a small yellow bag with bright butterflies on it.  It looked a bit out of place across his shoulders, the playful design a sharp contrast to his dark designer suit.  His violin case was strapped to the stroller’s handles, and Emily was clutching her plush DNA strand in her little hands and looked up at Greg with an intent gaze in her blue eyes when he opened the door.

“Hi Sherlock,” he greeted his visitor. “And welcome. Come in. We’re all set for you and the little lady.”

Sherlock pushed the stroller through the door, handed Greg the yellow bag and looked around.

“Where is my brother?”

“Mycroft sends his regards and regrets that he can’t be here in person. He’s stuck at the office and won’t be back before midnight or so.”

“What a coward,” Sherlock said with contempt. “Not that I would have expected otherwise. I’m sure he’s busy preparing a crisis somewhere in a far corner of the world so that by tomorrow afternoon at the very latest he will have to rush there to solve it. Which will take a few days, of course.”

Greg tried to suppress his grin but Sherlock caught it nevertheless and one side of his mouth lifted as well.

“I guess that means Emily and I can settle in without big brother hovering in the background. Fine by me.” He cocked his head and listened. “Where is your daughter?”

“I’m here, Sherlock,” Steph’s voice could be heard from one of the guest rooms. “Come and help me with the bedding.”

“The what?”

“We had to go and buy a bed for Emily since neither of you geniuses thought about the tiny fact that she can’t very well sleep in the big bed with you,” Greg explained.

“Of course she can. What do you think I’ll do to her?”

“Nothing, you git. It’s just that I don’t know about your sleeping habits and if you’re anything like your brother, then you hog the blanket, too, and that just won’t do.”

“He still does that?” Sherlock sniggered.

“Sherlock! Help me?” Steph shouted.  Sherlock shot Greg another grin and made his way to the room that had been assigned to him and Emily.

Greg followed him and placed the yellow bag on the armchair.  He crouched down next to the stroller and smiled at Emily. “Well hello there, little lady, good to have you here. Look at your Uncle Sherlock, he’s already following orders. With any luck, we’ll have him trained and professionalized in no time.”

Sherlock gave him a dirty look and opened his mouth as if to say something but changed his mind and snapped it shut again.  He focussed his attention on the small pillow instead and stuffed it carefully into its bright case. 

“Come with me,” Steph said when they were done with the bed and left the room, clearly expecting Sherlock to follow her.  Much to Greg’s surprise, he did and their voices could be heard from across the hallway.  Steph pointed out the impromptu changing table in the ensuite bathroom and explained her plan to start getting Emily potty trained. 

Greg chuckled softly and lightly tapped Emily’s small hands with one of his fingers. “You hear that? She’s got plans for you as well. You and Uncle Sherlock will be quite the team when your daddy comes home. John will be so proud of you both.”  She grabbed his finger as if to solemnly shake hands with him, and his heart went out to her. “Now, let me see if I can get you out of this thing so I can show you our flat.”  He struggled a bit with the straps but eventually managed to get her out of the stroller.  He settled her into the crook of his arm with the practised ease of a man who had already raised two children and followed the sound of Steph’s and Sherlock’s voices.

“Dad, look at you!” His daughter smiled at him. “You will be a fantastic grandfather one day!”

“Steph, please, don’t rush things.” He gave her an alarmed look.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not quite ready yet. Besides, Mycroft is very good at intimidating unwanted suitors.”

“Count on Mycroft to ride to the rescue,” Sherlock said but there was no venom in his voice.  He seemed determined to be on his best behaviour and looked as if he, too, was growing fond of Steph, Greg noticed with relief.  Good.  If the older Holmes brother agreed to a tentative truce, maybe the week would be less bumpy than expected. 

 

Greg couldn’t take time off as he had hoped but he did manage to bully and bribe both Andy and Sally into covering for him so he could leave earlier than usual and make it home at a decent enough time to cook for his guests, and to see for himself if everything was alright.  Sherlock spent most of the days at the hospital with John and Emily, occasionally accompanied by Steph, but had graciously agreed to peruse the files on the case Andy was working on.  After clearance with the super, Greg had begun to slowly pull out of the ongoing investigation in favour of preparing the course he had signed on to teach, and so it was up to Andy to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s way of handling a case but as he had stood in for Greg before, he knew what to expect.  It didn’t take Sherlock very long to point him into the right direction – “Has it ever occurred to you that each of the victims had his or her genitals pierced?” – and Andy’s team was soon able to zoom in on a small group of suspects.  (“How does he _do_ that?” Andy asked Greg when they bumped into each other at the Met, and Greg shrugged, grinning. “We see, but we don’t observe. You’ll pick some of his tricks up eventually, if you’re lucky and he’s amenable.”)

 

Despite Sherlock’s taunts, Mycroft did come home just before the evening news the next day.  The sounds of domestic bliss greeted him upon opening the apartment door and he stopped in mid-movement, as if frozen to the spot.  A violin and a piano could be heard playing a cheerful melody that danced through the rooms.  Mycroft pursed his lips and tried to remember the last time he had heard Sherlock play with someone – anyone – else.  Before their relationship had reached the difficult stage it was now in, they had occasionally played the odd duet but that had been, what, twenty-five or even more years ago. 

He put his briefcase into his study, then silently made his way across the hallway and stepped into the sitting room, taking in the peaceful scenery before him.  Emily was sitting on a blanket hat had been spread out on the floor and was busy sorting the pieces of a stacker toy, Steph was playing the piano and Sherlock stood with his back to the room, facing Steph, improvising around her play.  Greg had a newspaper in his hands but wasn’t reading.  Instead, he smiled at his daughter with such paternal pride that Mycroft had to bite down on his lower lip so as not to break out into a happy smile himself.  Although the leather soles of his shoes didn’t make much of a sound, Sherlock’s back stiffened slightly but he continued playing.  Greg seemed to notice the sudden rigidity in Sherlock’s slim frame because he turned around and held out his hand to Mycroft who came closer, took it and when he was within reach, bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Greg's lips before remembering that he wouldn’t indulge in displays of affection before his brother.  Sherlock still had his back to him, however, so technically it didn’t count as ‘before’ his brother.

When the song was finished, Steph got up and greeted Mycroft with a quick hug.  Sherlock gave him a stiff little nod and started to put the violin away. Steph made a dismayed sound.

“Oh no, please don’t,” she begged. “Will you not play with Mycroft? Just this once? He’s such a good player and you would sound great together.”

Cool blue-and-grey eyes met an icy aquamarine stare and just as the brothers were to shrug the silly request off as absurdity, Greg cleared his throat and said in a firm voice, “Actually, I would love to hear that.”

Two sets of lasers focussed on him, trying to singe his impudence right on the spot, but he decided to be blissfully ignorant of the Holmes wrath about to unfurl. “Come on, boys, be nice. You’ll have a devoted and grateful audience.” He smiled cheerfully into their frowns. “Sherl? Myc? Please?”

Sherlock huffed indignantly, clearly unimpressed, but Mycroft felt his resistance melt.

“May I change into something more comfortable before I indulge in, ah, an attempt at family music?”

“Just take your jacket off and remove the cufflinks, that’s as comfortable as I can take you,” Sherlock said testily. “Roll your sleeves up and I get scared.”

“Listen to the two of you,” Steph chided, sitting down next to her father with Emily on her lap. “I wonder who the toddler is around here. Don’t be such dicks with each other.”

“Steph!” Greg warned her, but the corners of his mouth twitched and he failed to deliver the message.

Mycroft chose not to reply, disappeared into the bedroom and re-emerged ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and one of the Henley shirts that Greg loved to see on him.  His bare feet stuck in soft brown suede loafers that made no sound as he walked through the room to pour himself a Glenlivet.  He took a sip, then sat down at the piano and gave his brother a pointed stare.  Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh but rose from where he had been slumping in one of the big armchairs.

“You are scaring me, Mycroft,” he observed. “No socks? Blue jeans? What is the world coming to?”

“I’ve agreed to let myself be domesticated to a certain degree.” Mycroft and Greg exchanged a small smile that did not escape Sherlock’s attention, but instead of making another acid remark, he sighed again and rolled his eyes.

“Ready when you are, brother dear.” He picked up his bow and violin and made a big show of tuning the instrument.

Steph nudged her father happily and turned Emily around so she, too, could see the piano.  She pointed and whispered theatrically, “Behold, the Holmes brothers.”

“What is it going to be, then? It’s been quite a while.” Mycroft was running through a few scales to warm his fingers up. 

Sherlock shrugged. “You choose. I’ll improvise around you.”

“We’ll see about that.” Mycroft stared into the distance for a while and then started grinning. “How do you feel about duelling banjos?”

Sherlock looked surprised, then his lips stretched into a smile. “A duel?”

“Exactly.”

“Duel of the banjos?” Greg asked with a confused look. “Correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t that a totally different instrument?”

The brothers turned to look at him as if he had just said something utterly stupid and he all but shrank into the cushions, murmuring an apology.  Mycroft raised his hands and let them hover over the keyboard for a few seconds, and Greg was transported back to their first night at the Silver Fox, when Mycroft had let himself be persuaded to play the piano and Greg had been mortally afraid he wasn’t up to the challenge, having assumed that the only music Mycroft knew how to play was classical music.  Dear Lord, had he been wrong about that!  ‘Mike’ had played a boogie woogie in the best Jerry Lee Lewis tradition and had won the audience over in no time all.  He had become a somewhat regular instalment at the Silver Fox since then despite the fact that his appearances were anything but regular.  When he did show up, however, he was greeted with frenetic enthusiasm and never left without playing for the audience.  So Greg knew Mycroft was a versatile piano player but he had no idea what to expect from the Holmes brothers playing together.

Mycroft’s right hand came down and he played a few notes.  Sherlock imitated them, plucking the strings rather than pulling the bow across.  They repeated this four or five more times but when Mycroft picked up speed, Sherlock raised his bow and they launched into something that made Greg and Steph look at each other in utter disbelief, and Steph broke out in uncontrollable giggles while images of a Western saloon flooded Greg’s mind.  When Sherlock pulled the bow across the strings one last time, ending the crazy fiddling and keyboard hammering, Greg was applauding wildly, Steph was still giggling and Emily was crowing with delight.  Sherlock looked every bit as surprised as Mycroft had at the pub when he had found out that others genuinely enjoyed what he was doing, and before the spell was broken, Mycroft started playing something that sounded like a Scottish or Irish traditional, and after a mere fraction of a moment, Sherlock’s violin joined the piano, sounding lovely, joyful and melancholic at the same time, as only a violin could.  For a few precious minutes, there was no animosity between the brothers, all bickering forgotten, their love for music bringing them together this once.

The last note died away, and Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other.  There was a glimmer of hope in Mycroft’s eyes and a softness to Sherlock’s face that made Greg hold his breath but then Sherlock turned abruptly to put his violin away, and the hope in Mycroft’s eyes faded.

“That was brilliant,” Greg said. “Beautiful. Just imagine if you were to play that at the Silver Fox. The crowd would go wild and business would skyrocket.”

“Play in a pub? I think not.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with disdain but Greg slyly pointed out, “John might enjoy it.”

“Really?” The look of sheer surprise on Sherlock’s face made Greg stifle a laugh.  For all of his sharp observational skills, the simple everyday things tended to escape Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, I am pretty sure of it. You know he likes to have a pint every now and then, and he’s been to the Silver Fox before.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and snapped the violin case shut.  _Let him chew on that for a while_ , Greg thought and turned to his daughter.  “Don’t you think it’s time to get Miss Watson to bed, chit?”

“She’s a bit agitated now, after the music and all. But I can try. Maybe Sherlock can read to her. His voice seems to calm her down.”

“I have the latest Biochemistry Journal with me,” Sherlock said eagerly. “I can read the featured article to her. I was going to read it tonight anyway, and I don’t mind reading it aloud.”

“I am sure she will be immensely fascinated by the latest findings on subcomplex architectures,” Mycroft drawled and stood up from his piano stool. “However, before you engage in your storytelling activities I would have a word with you, brother dear.”

“By all means, please do go ahead.”

“In private. Greg, Steph, please excuse us.” When they nodded, he gestured for Sherlock to follow him into his study.  He closed the door behind his brother who looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“What is it, Mycroft? What is so bloody confidential – oh!”  His ever changing eyes scanned his brother’s face. “The accident. You have news about the accident.”

Mycroft gave an affirmative tilt of his head. “It’s not much but CCTV footage confirmed it was indeed a blue van that hit you. We’ve been able to trace it back to a deserted factory site. Obviously, the license plates had been removed but we are fairly certain it’s the same van.” He picked his briefcase up from where he had placed it, snapped it open and handed Sherlock an envelope.  Sherlock reached inside and pulled a few photos out.  They were of a grainy quality but one shot showed a surprisingly clear shot of a bearded face.  He studied it but shook his head.

“Can’t remember seeing that face. Got an ID on him?”

“We’re not a hundred per cent sure yet but as per now, it appears to be Kristian Svendsen.”

“Svendsen? Sounds Scandinavian. Who he?”

“If our findings prove to be correct and it is indeed Svendsen, then we’re looking at a trusted associate of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Svendsen used to be what one might call a hatchet man.”

“Magnussen?” Sherlock drew a sharp breath. “But that was over two years ago. I shot him.”

“Yes, you did. But – and I am aware that I am but guessing – it would seem he has left certain... instructions. Or his staff have decided to go freelance.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “For the time being, speculations are all we have and you know that we can’t act on mere speculations. I’m pulling a small team together to take a closer look and we may have to eventually involve the Metropolitan Police, depending on the outcome.”

“Will you need to get Lestrade on board?”

“It will be impossible to hide the truth from him although I would prefer it if he didn’t get involved in the actual investigation. I didn’t tell him about Mary’s past but he knows about Magnussen and it will not take him long to put the pieces together.”

Sherlock made a derisive sound and Mycroft snapped at him, “Don’t you think it’s about time you dropped your ridiculous preconception of him being an idiot?”

“But he can be so nerve-rackingly thick at times.”

“Just like you. For as brilliant as you are, you have a tendency to be ignorant when you should be at your most observing.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t close your eyes at what lies before you.”

They stared at each other for a while, then Mycroft said in a conciliatory tone, “Listen, Sherlock, while the investigation is at such an early stage, allow me to assign security to you until we know more.”

“A watchdog? The answer is no.”

“It is not only you we have to worry about,” Mycroft pointed out. “Must I draw your attention to the possibility that Emily might be on the target list as well?”

“Emily? Why Emily?”

“Pressure points, Sherlock,” his brother reminded him. “Also, there is John Watson to consider but I have already placed security before his room. Please, Sherlock, I beseech you, please let me handle this my way. Just this once, please.”

Sherlock stood very still for what seemed like an eternity to Mycroft, but he finally nodded. “Very well then, Mycroft. But I expect to be kept up to date with everything you find.”

“Agreed.”

Mycroft took the photos from Sherlock’s hands, put them back into the envelope, placed it into his briefcase and locked it.  They left the study and found the others in the guest bathroom where Greg had just finished changing Emily’s nappies.

“I can still do it,” he said proudly, and Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Revolting,” he murmured. “I hope I’m not expected to join the happy baby circle.”

He sniffed when the others started laughing and gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Will the surrogate family excuse me while I make some phone calls?” Although it was phrased as a question, it wasn’t meant as such and he disappeared into his study once more, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock finished preparing Emily for the night, under Steph’s observant eyes, then he, too, disappeared into his room.  Steph changed into her pyjamas and joined her father on the big couch where he was flipping idly through the channels.  When the title melody of _Downton Abbey_ was heard, she snatched the remote control from his hands to prevent him from changing channels.  She sighed happily and pulled her feet up.

“This is one of the best shows ever made,” she told him. “Cousin Violet is seriously badass and I cried so much when Lady Sybil died. Let’s watch this, yes?”

“Sure, why not. I think I’ve seen most of it in the meantime. Lord Grantham is my favourite, by the way.”

“Really? Why?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. I think I can relate to him, in a way. He’s this patriarch who tries to keep everything together, putting on a brave front when things threaten to crumble around him.” He squinted at the screen. “Mhm, but I must say I also like Thomas. Sneaky bastard but devilishly handsome at it.”

“And Cousin Violet?”

“What about her?”

“Don’t you like her? I think she’s the best.”

“She is,” Greg agreed. “Actually, I think I’m married to her.”

“Dad!” Steph giggled and flung a cushion at him. “That's not a nice thing to say!”

“Why not,” he protested laughingly. “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong. The haughty stares, the acid remarks, the arrogant nose...”

“... the fancy suits,” she gasped, “oh my God, Dad, you’re so right.”

They had barely calmed down and were sitting comfortably in one corner of the couch each when Mycroft returned from his study.  He looked at the screen and said approvingly, “ _Downton Abbey_. Very good show, superb acting. The Dowager Duchess actually is my favourite character. She’s spot on. – What? What did I say?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked at the photos with narrowed eyes.  They showed a tall blonde woman in her late thirties with the stunning good looks of a movie star but with the body of a professional athlete.  Not even her dark business-like suits could hide the lithe grace of those limbs.  She wore her hair in a no-nonsense braided tail, and there was no jewellery on her other than her watch and tiny golden ear studs.  The barest touch of make-up.  A natural beauty.  Greg’s new partner at the Met’s Academy and Mycroft’s basic nightmare. 

DI Laura Thompson.

Greg had been teaching for only two weeks but already there were undeniable changes in him.  His shoulders never slumped anymore, there was a new spring to his step and his face didn’t look tired when he got home.  He didn’t work any less than before, quite the contrary.  It was clear he wanted his first course to be a success and he spent hours diligently preparing his material, had even begun putting PowerPoint presentations together, something he used to abhor and had never been particularly good at.

Mycroft had mercilessly teased him about his sudden change of heart and about Laura this and Laura that until one day he had picked him up unannounced and had seen him emerge from the building with a tall and beautiful woman by his side with whom he seemed on excellent terms.  He had watched them chat and laugh, noticed their relaxed body posture and when Laura – for it could be nobody else but the frequently mentioned DI – had reached for Greg’s tie to adjust it, he had decided it was time to make himself known.  He had schooled his features into an expression of polite boredom and casually strolled up to greet them.

“Mycroft!” Greg’s eyes lit up when he saw him.  No looking down and to the side the way he did when he was being evasive.  Good.

DI Thompson turned around and looked at him out of cool blue eyes.  She was even more stunning than on the photos, taller, too, and Mycroft felt something cold clutch at his heart.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely and extended his hand. “I believe we haven’t met yet. Mycroft Holmes.”

She took his hand in a firm clasp and much to his dismay, her hand was warm and dry and the handshake was a pleasant one.

“Mr Holmes, how do you do. Laura Thompson.”

The smile she bestowed on him extended into her eyes and the cool, measuring gaze vanished.  He let a hint of friendliness creep into his own tight-lipped smile.

“DI Thompson. Is it safe to assume you’re the one who has taken it upon her to mentor DCI Lestrade in his endeavours to become a model teacher?”

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that only made her more attractive and Mycroft decided he didn’t like her after all.  He wasn’t sexually attracted to women but he recognized and acknowledged female beauty.  Greg, on the other hand, had a history of enjoying both sexes.  Impossible that he wouldn’t be tempted.

“He’s a natural. He’s doing great and we all hope he’ll stay on board.”

Greg looked pleased, if a little self-conscious and cleared his throat.  “So, Laura was suggesting we’d go running this weekend. You won’t mind, will you? You’re travelling anyway, right?”

“Of course I don’t mind and yes, I will be travelling. You don’t need to ask for my permission, Gregory.”

 _Gregory_.  Greg narrowed his eyes and gave him a thoughtful look.  Mycroft only called him Gregory when he wanted to tease him… or when he was cross, and Greg was well aware of that.

“So that’s settled then.” Thompson nodded to Greg. “Weekend running date. You choose if you prefer Saturday or Sunday, I can do both.” She wrinkled her nose as if she suddenly remembered something she would rather forget. “Actually, I’d prefer Saturday, come to think of it. Sorry.”

“Saturday’s good. Let’s fix the details tomorrow, yeah?”

“Great. Remember to be here a bit earlier so we can compare notes.”

“Sure. Seven thirty early enough?”

“Ugh. You really are an early bird, right?”

Greg grinned and she nodded again.  “Seven thirty it is. See you. Mr Holmes, pleasure.”

She turned to walk towards the street with long strides, hailed a cab and climbed in.  When the car was out of sight, Mycroft casually said, “She’s quite remarkable.”

“Remarkable?” Greg looked at him with amusement. “She’s freakin’ hot! Smart, too. Half the guys are in love with her.”

“And the other half?”

“Scared. Believe me, you do not want to fuck with her.”

“I most certainly don’t,” Mycroft replied sardonically and Greg linked arms with him.

“You better not,” he said, only half-jokingly. 

Mycroft looked at him. “How about you? In love or scared?”

A rude snort was the answer to that. “Three or four years ago, in love, probably.” He squeezed Mycroft’s arm. “Now? All I want is right here.”

Mycroft’s heart picked up a beat and he returned the squeeze. “Glad to hear it.”

They smiled at each other, then Greg removed his arm and Mycroft internally cursed social conventions that still frowned upon displays of affection between men, and the fact that both of them were in lines of work that required them to be wary.  He could tell from the look in Greg’s eyes he was thinking the exact same thing and a warm feeling spread in his chest, chasing the cold away.

“Home?” he suggested and Greg inclined his head in the affirmative.

“Home.”

 

Despite Greg’s assurance and the fact that his behaviour towards Mycroft didn’t change, Mycroft had DI Thompson’s file sent to his e-mail account and was now studying it.  She was divorced, single, no children, her CV was impeccable and her track record impressive.  Her father was the CFO of a renowned real estate developer and her brother was a successful lawyer, specialized in corporate law.  Until six years ago her career could only be described as stellar but suddenly there was a gap of almost two years.  A year of nondescript desk work followed and three years ago she joined the Academy as a full-time teacher.  She was well-liked amongst her students and her fellow instructors, a hard worker, a person of integrity and the participants of her courses graduated remarkably well.

He clicked through the CCTV footage that showed her running next to Greg.  She had a well-defined muscular build, neither heavy nor mannish but disturbingly perfect, curves in all the right places, very long legs, too.  Mycroft grit his teeth.  She and Greg made a beautiful couple, trim and relaxed. 

With an angry grunt he shut down his laptop and got up from his chair.  He walked to the body-length mirror opposite the huge closet of his generous hotel suite and studied his reflection.  He had lost weight since he had come together with Greg, and not only because he exercised more regularly than before.  He ate better, too, Greg made sure of that.  He lifted his head and turned it to the left, then to the right.  Were there signs of a double chin, and was the skin of his neck starting to sag?  He had always disliked his long nose with its odd bend just above the tip, and ‘receding hairline’ would soon be ‘half bald’.  There were shadows under his eyes and a few more tired lines in his face, and he needed reading glasses, for heaven’s sake. 

How did he compare to the athletic police officer whose company Greg seemed to seek out, even during the weekends?  What if Greg yearned for the softness of a woman’s body?  Curves where he only had flat planes and sharp angles to offer?  Smooth skin instead of hairy chest and legs?  He rubbed a hand across his face and hated how the gesture made him feel weak and helpless.

He sat down on the sofa and turned the news channel on but it did nothing to distract him so he snatched his mobile up and speed-dialled a number.  He didn’t have to wait long for the call to be connected.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice sounded a lot softer than it usually did. “Something the matter?”

“Why should anything be the matter?”

“Because I have yet to see the day you choose to make a purely social call.”

“What if I told you I phoned because I wanted to enquire about John’s progress?”

“Nonsense,” came the prompt reply. “You don’t give a rat’s arse about John’s well-being.”

“That is not entirely true, Sherlock. His daughter stayed at my apartment for almost a week.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve bonded with her. But to answer your question, John is doing well and making good progress. He’s with his physical therapist as we speak. On his way here, actually.”

“And Emily?”

“She’s asleep. I’ve just checked on her.”  So that’s why he had sounded so soft.  Mycroft felt his features relax into a little smile and Sherlock continued, “I’ve moved into John’s former bedroom and he and Emily have taken mine. It’s easier that way, the room’s bigger and he doesn’t have to worry about the narrow steps while he’s still on crutches.”

“Is this going to be a permanent arrangement?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“If you’re trying to find out whether John will move back in, the answer is yes, Mycroft, he will. He has already given his landlady notice and we will clear the flat the day after tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

Sherlock snorted. “Why should he return to live in the flat where everything reminds him of Mary? Their furniture, her clothes, her perfume, all the memories. Not helpful. His bad dreams have returned, Mycroft. I will not allow for him to be all by himself. Not this time. Never again.” He abruptly stopped and Mycroft knew better than to remark on this.  Sherlock cleared his throat.  “So. And you’re calling why?”

“To hear the sound of your voice,” Mycroft said sarcastically. “How are you doing, little brother?”

“Mycroft. I appreciate the effort but your red herring is wasted on me. Something must be the matter. What is it? The weight of the world has suddenly become too heavy to bear? I doubt it. Domestic, then.” His intent gaze was almost audible over the phone. “Lestrade. What has he done now? He’s pulling out of ongoing investigations and although I hope it’s only temporary I fear it’s going to be permanent. He seems to enjoy teaching. I find his successor a trifle irritating but I’ve had worse. Dimmock, for instance.” Mycroft could tell he was rolling his eyes. “No, that’s not it. You seemed to approve of his career change. Mhm. What else. Oh. Oh! I see.”  He chuckled.

“What is so funny? Do share your insight.”

“You don’t approve of his new partner.”

“What about her?”

“DI Thompson. You dislike her.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft said stiffly. “She seems a capable policewoman.”

“You should hear yourself. I know that bitchy little undertone. Capable policewoman. A euphemism for dull. Donovan is a capable policewoman. Thompson is actually quite bright, compared to the rest. You dislike her,” he repeated and didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Why is that? Are you jealous?” He made it sound as if it was meant to be a joke but Mycroft pressed his lips together, swallowing a tart reply. “You’re jealous,” Sherlock said incredulously when there was no answer. “You’re being ridiculous. I can’t believe you’re calling me because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Mycroft snapped but his brother laughed.  Actually laughed.  Mycroft’s hand clenched around his phone and the plastic case creaked in protest.

“You have nothing to fear from DI Thompson. Lestrade is perfectly safe with her.”

“But she’s beautiful,” Mycroft blurted out before he knew what he was saying.

“So that’s what this is all about? Don’t go there again, Mycroft.” Sherlock sounded alarmed. “Believe me, there is no reason to become nervous. Even if she weren’t what she is, she’s no danger.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that although I am at a complete loss to understand why, Lestrade is besotted with you. After all this time. It’s touching, really.”

“That’s not what I was referring to. What did you mean, if she weren’t what she is?”

“For all that you claim to be smarter than me, you can be amazingly thick. Do your research, brother dear.” He paused. “John’s coming. I have to go. Check her files. Check the part that’s missing. You’ll see I’m right.” He disconnected the call.

Mycroft stared at the display and started to dial another number but a knock on the door that connected his suite to the adjoining conference centre interrupted him.  He went to open the door.  Anthea gave him a polite smile.

“Your visitors have arrived. Steiner’s dialling in. Can we start?”

“Certainly. Let me get my jacket.”

Laura Thompson would have to wait.

******

Greg squeezed his way through the crowd, balancing a tray full of pints and half pints.  With a relieved sigh he placed it on their table in the far corner.

“There you go, ladies. Round’s on me, as promised.”

“Thanks mate.” Andy helped himself to a pint of lager, and the tray emptied quickly as the others took their beverages, too.  Greg turned to Thompson who stood with her back to the wall.

“Laura? Didn’t you want anything?”

“Thanks, I’m good. Next round.” 

It had taken some persuasion to get her to join the little group that met at the Silver Fox but Greg had not been with Mycroft all this time without picking up a few rhetoric tricks.  She had agreed but had mumbled something about not being able to stay very long.  Her arrival was cheered by Sally Donovan and Amanda Hastings who welcomed female back-up against the testosterone-laden bantering. 

“So, Thompson, tell us all.” Paul turned towards her. “How’s Lestrade holding up? All the young and eager recruits bringing him to his knees yet?”

“Hey,” Greg protested laughingly. “No-one brings me to my knees.”

“Oh yeah?” Andy nudged him, grinning. “Unless they’re tall, posh and ginger, right?”

“Shut up, Rogers.” Greg nudged him back. “That’s my husband you’re talking about. You don’t want to call him ginger to his face.”

“Unless you want to be deported,” Paul threw in and Greg nodded gravely. “To Nottingham. Or Kilmarnock.”

“Oh no, not Kilmarnock,” Andy raised his hands in a dramatic gesture of surrender. “Please, not Scotland.”

“Why? A pretty Southern boy up in the North? You’d grow up in no time.”

“Or be torn to shreds by men in kilts,” Paul added darkly. 

They threw each other a few more ideas where Andy might get deported by the _mighty Mycroft_ which invariably brought back a brief reminiscence of the day Mycroft had shown up at the Metropolitan police station in his official function.  A series of bombing threats to strategic locations all over London had brought the Met, the Security Service and even the Secret Intelligence Service together to join forces and after a brief introduction of the Commissioner, Mycroft had stepped up to address the policemen and -women and special agents that were assembled in the auditorium.  Greg had wisely taken a seat in the background and watched as half a dozen heads snapped up to stare at the man next to their Commissioner in disbelief.  ‘Mike Croft’, whom they had grown used to hearing play the Silver Fox’ battered piano, ‘Mike’, who allegedly was in a relationship with Lestrade although there was no sound proof of that – _Lestrade_.  Greg had shrunk in his seat as the eyes of his small pub group had bored into him.

What followed had been an uncomfortable couple of weeks of spoken and unspoken accusations of having been spied on and having a mole smuggled into their group, but eventually the turmoil had died down and things at the Silver Fox went back to normal.  The next time Mycroft had turned up at the pub, he had good-naturedly endured a seemingly endless stream of questions, had evaded most of them with rhetorical finesse and had finally silenced them with the promise that all rounds that evening were on him.  The nickname ‘mighty Mycroft’ had stuck, however.

“Well? How is he doing then?” Andy clasped Thompson’s shoulder in a friendly gesture.  She started and winced away from him.  He immediately let go and raised his hands once more, this time in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Thompson, I didn’t mean to offend.”

She rubbed her shoulder. “No offense, Rogers. You hit a bruise. Shoulder throw gone wrong,” she explained. “And it’s Laura, please.”

“Ouch,” Andy grimaced sympathetically. “Judo?”

“Aikido,” she corrected. “And Lestrade is doing just fine. We’re halfway through the course and his students are reacting well to him.”

“Lots of special tutoring after school?” Sally asked, grinning.

“Oh yeah,” Laura grinned back. “He’ll be needing police protection soon.”

She left her spot by the wall to join them at the small round table but Greg noticed she kept a distance nevertheless, as if to avoid physical contact.  It wasn’t before Sally shooed the men away to clear the corner for herself and Amanda that her body posture relaxed a little, and Greg narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  That was the first time he had seen her uncomfortable.  Was she afraid of men?  But she appeared self-confident when she stood before her class that consisted of mostly men and had appeared relaxed when they had met for their running appointment.  What was different here?  The close proximity of other people?  The enclosed surrounding?  And that shoulder bruise – domestic violence?  But she was single, or so she claimed.  He inwardly shrugged.  He’d been around the Holmeses for too long, reading too much into the smallest of gestures.  He knew she religiously trained Aikido – with a male partner – and held the fourth or fifth dan and it was most likely a bruise after all.

He signalled the waitress for another round.

“Do you think Mike will drop by later?” Thomas asked hopefully.  Thomas had become Mycroft’s biggest fan and the first to forgive Greg for not telling the truth about his mysterious friend.  Andy and Paul kept teasing him mercilessly about having developed a man-crush but he shrugged it off good-naturedly.  He loved jazz and admired people who were able to play a musical instrument and was not afraid to express his admiration by fiercely applauding each of Mycroft’s performances and throwing title after title at him in the hope that he would play one of them. 

“No, he’s travelling. He won’t be back before Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Pity. Then let’s hope the band is any good.”

******

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and swirled the Glenlivet in the heavy tumbler.  The light caught in the liquid and added an amber shade to its pale golden colour.  Before him lay the complete file of DI Laura Thompson, along with a few photos that were taken at the Silver Fox the previous weekend.  So Greg had wasted no time taking her to the only pub he enjoyed going to.  Well, the only pub he went to at all, to be precise.  No doubt she had made quite the impact.  He picked up the photos one by one and studied them morosely.  She really was a beauty, and Greg didn’t seem able to tear his eyes away from her.  Wait.  He put the tumbler down, sat up and looked more closely at the photo he had just put down.  Greg was looking intently at Thompson, but his dark eyes were narrowed and – Mycroft reached for his reading glasses – his gaze wasn’t that of an admirer of female beauty but that of a policeman scrutinizing something that had caught his attention.  They were on easy terms, yes, and there were photos that showed them laughing, but the scrutinizing look could be seen on more than one photo.  In addition, Mycroft noticed a certain stiffness in Thompson’s posture that belied her smiling face.  Intriguing.

He reached for the file and opened it.  The first few pages didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already seen and he impatiently leafed through the stack of papers to get to the part that had been missing in the electronic file he had read and that Sherlock had so mysteriously referred to.  Sherlock.  Mycroft sniffed.  Why would his brother care for Greg’s new partner?

A knock at the door intruded his train of thought and he indignantly replied, “Come.”

The heavy door opened and Taylor, one of the Diogenes’ employees, entered the office.

“Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but there is a… lady who wishes to speak with you. She claims it’s important.”

The brief pause before the indication that his visitor was female did not escape Mycroft and he raised his brows inquisitively.  Not too many women found their way into the Diogenes Club, let alone into the private offices, and only Anthea enjoyed the rare privilege of being nodded inside without the usual formalities reserved for the members’ guests, her status well-known and her brisk professionalism respected.

“A woman?”

“Indeed, sir.” Taylor permitted the merest hint at disapproval to creep into his voice. “She is a policewoman. I have taken the liberty of checking her ID.” The quotation marks on the last two syllables were audible.

“Very well. Thank you, Mr Taylor. Show her in.”

Taylor nodded stiffly and turned to fully open the door to let the visitor step inside.  Mycroft rose politely and managed to keep his face indifferent when he realized his visitor was none other than DI Thompson whose file he had just begun to peruse.

“Inspector,” he greeted her and indicated towards one of the visitors’ chairs. “What an unexpected pleasure. Please, sit. Would you care for a refreshment?”

Laura took the offered seat and smiled up at him. “Espresso would be nice, thank you.”

Mycroft sat back down and looked at Taylor.  “Mr Taylor, might I trouble you with the task of preparing an espresso for the inspector?”

“Certainly, sir.” Taylor’s back stiffened but he went to the office’s tiny kitchenette nevertheless.  Mycroft was perfectly able to operate the coffee maker but he felt it was necessary to maintain appearances until he knew what the surprise visit was about.

They chatted commonplaces until the espresso set was placed on the small table in between the visitors’ chairs and Taylor had closed the door behind himself.

“What brings you here, Inspector?” Mycroft sat back and looked at her with unblinking eyes.  She returned his gaze and stirred a tiny amount of sugar into her espresso.

“It has been brought to my attention that you are worried about the nature of my relationship or rather, my intentions towards DCI Lestrade,” she said without further ado. 

Mycroft froze and blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was approached yesterday and it was pointed out to me that clarification would be advisable.”  She took a sip and made an appreciative sound. “This is very good indeed.”

“Thank you,” he replied automatically. “May I ask who approached you?”

“Why, your brother, of course.” She paused. “He is your brother, right? Sherlock Holmes? Tall, dark, lanky, big coat, rude?”

“Yes, that would have been him.” Mycroft felt the corner of his left eye twitch.

She studied him out of her cool blue eyes. “Please forgive me, but you don’t seem to have a lot in common.”

“Appearances are deceptive, Inspector.” He circled the rim of the tumbler with his fingers.

“They certainly are, Mr Holmes.” She crossed her long legs and regarded him with what seemed wry amusement. “I take you for a man who doesn’t enjoy wasting his time although your ability at small talk is admirable. Allow me therefore to get straight to the point.” She took another sip. “I am aware of the fact that you and Lestrade are married although he is very discreet about his private life. His friends aren’t, however, and their jokes about the _mighty Mycroft_ deporting impudent policemen to Kilmarnock,” she chuckled, “and the fact that you’re wearing identical rings made it easy to figure out. I have no intention whatsoever to break into your marriage, Mr Holmes. I am not a homewrecker.”

“What is your intention then?”

“I intend to use Greg Lestrade, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft choked on the sip he had just taken and coughed violently. “Excuse me?” It came out as a gasp.

“I said,” Laura uncrossed her legs, “I intend to use him. Let me show you.” She rose from the chair with fluid grace, shrugged out of her jacket and placed it neatly over the back of the chair.  She undid the buttons of her blouse – light blue with white pinstripes, Mycroft noticed absent-mindedly – and pulled it out of her trousers.  He sat rooted to his chair and watched with incredulous eyes as she stripped out of the garment and draped it over the chair as well.  When she reached for the hem of her top, he found his voice again.

“What are you doing?” he croaked, cleared his throat and repeated in a more normal voice, “May I ask what on earth it is you are trying to tell me?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I want to explain my intentions towards Greg, and if I want you to fully understand, I need to show you.”  With one swift movement she pulled the dark blue vest over her head.

“Oh my god.” He slumped back in his chair and she raised her chin defiantly.

“Well? Like what you see?”


	6. Chapter 6

What he saw was the destroyed torso of a beautiful woman.  Angry scars zigzagged across her skin, some red and raised, some indented.  A landscape of lava streams and carved valleys.  The ones between her hipbones, around her navel, were the worst but the lines reached well up to her breasts.  She had left her bra on but although it was one of the sturdier models that didn’t put anything on display – possibly a sports bra –, it was obvious that there were scars on her breasts as well.

Mycroft had seen mutilation before, in fact he had seen more than he cared to remember and he had seen far worse.  And yet, he would never grow used to it, was never really able to fully detach himself when presented with the results of pointless brutality.  He didn’t even try to hide his horror as his eyes travelled along Laura’s marred upper body; it would have been an insult to her intelligence if he pretended to be unfazed for she must have seen the initial shock in his eyes.

“No,” he calmly said in reply to her question, “I do not like what I see.”

She held his gaze and nodded. “Thank you for being honest.”  She quickly put vest and blouse back on but left the blouse over her trousers so as not to cause any more discomfort by awkwardly fumbling about and slipped into her jacket.  She sat back down and reached for her espresso.

“Am I correct in assuming that this is my file right there on your desk?”

“It is,” he confirmed.

“You are very thorough.”

“I have to be.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“I should hope so.”

“Well,” she toyed with the small silver spoon that had fallen off the delicate saucer, “have you read it all yet?”

“No. I had just begun when your arrival was announced.”

“Well,” she said again and ran a hand over her hair, “allow me to sum it up. What you have just seen is the result of an encounter with the man the press used to refer to as ‘The Butcher’. Not the most creative of names but certainly appropriate.”

Mycroft drew a hissing breath.

“It happened during a routine exchange with the colleagues up in Manchester. Nothing special. I was sent there to assist with a kidnapping that bore resemblance to one we had successfully closed the year before. Then, one evening, I was struck down on the way to my lodgings and woke up again in a room of what turned out to be the abandoned wing of a former textile factory that was being turned into a nightclub.” She twirled the end of her braided tail around her fingers. “When I look back, what strikes me most is how easy it was. I’m a trained policewoman and in excellent physical shape and yet I was snatched off the street just like that, and the Butcher's hideaway was more or less there for everyone to see.” She swallowed, and Mycroft reached behind him for an empty glass and a small bottle of mineral water.  She accepted both with steady hands but her fingers were cold when their hands touched for the fraction of a second.

“The details are all in the file – I suppose this is the complete file, and not the abridged version?”

He nodded. “The complete one.”

“Good. Let me warn you, it does not make for happy reading. It’s amazing how much pain the human body can endure. One doesn’t die that easily, no matter how much one longs for it to be over.” She poured some water, gulped it down and coughed. “When I woke up again at the hospital and was considered stable enough to be given the facts of what had happened, I was informed that I would never have children because the uterus had been removed. I remember thinking, so this is what he threw on the floor and squashed beneath his boots.” She sat the glass down with a loud clink. “Chunks of my breasts had been cut out as well but plastic surgery has taken care of that. I don’t remember the raping but apparently that’s been done with painstaking meticulousness, too.”

Mycroft listened to her without interjecting as much as a syllable.  Her voice sounded flat and her eyes were fixed on the painting behind him.

“I spent the next two years in treatment. Fixing the body, healing the mind.” She made a small huffing sound. “My father is a wealthy man so money was never the issue. I was given all the time I needed in the best facilities money can buy and when I felt I was able to function again, I asked to return to the Met. Not to my previous position, obviously, but to one that handled the more bureaucratic side of police work. It helped me find my way back into life, and when I started teaching, I slowly began looking forward to getting up in the mornings again.”

She cocked her head and looked at Mycroft.

“So, where does that leave DCI Lestrade? And in how far do I intend to use him?” A smile flickered across her face, bringing back life to her features. “I’ve been able to interact with other people on a relatively normal basis for quite some time now. I’m still in therapeutic treatment, but I’m getting there. I’m always on guard and I cannot stand being touched by any man other than my father, my brother and my Aikido partner, my best friend since first grade. Accidental touches don’t make me scream anymore but I cannot allow more.” She briefly pressed her lips together. “There is something about Greg that puts me at ease. You would think I’ve lost all faith in men and my brain would agree with you. Still, the moment I met him it was like…” she was groping for words, “…as if I was being handed a fluffy blanket to cling to.” A short laugh. “And I know how _that_ sounds.”

“No,” Mycroft said softly, “I know exactly what you mean. Go on.”

“It’s in his eyes, and in that funny crooked smile of his. Like you can run to him with everything from your teddy’s missing ear… or the Butcher having torn you apart.”

“You have him spot on, Inspector.”

“Laura, please, Mr Holmes.”

“Laura. And it’s Mycroft, please.”

“Mycroft.” She smiled. “Last week he said something so utterly out of place that I started laughing until tears started rolling. Laughing tears, Mycroft, and for a moment I felt light as a feather. It’s been forever since I’ve laughed like that. He treats me with respect and warmth, never checks me out, never plays his superiority or the fact that he’s an experienced officer and I’m some sort of police force drop-out. He used to be married to a woman so he obviously isn’t a women-bashing homosexual – no offense,” she said hastily.

“None taken. I don’t hate women either. I just don’t engage in sexual activities with them.”

She laughed her throaty laugh at that. “You know that sounds almost wicked, coming from you.”

“Meaning?”

“Forgive me for being frank, but looking at you, one would assume you close your eyes and think of England. And yet you’re married – _married_ – to Greg Lestrade who exudes sex without even being aware of it. Half the students are in love with him and I don’t want to know about the other half, and that’s both men and women.”

“Funny you should say that.”

“Why?”

“He said something similar about you.”

“Did he now.” She sipped some more water. “Anyway. He’s what my friend Annie calls a ‘blokey bloke’ and yet I am not afraid of him. The day we went running, he didn’t try to come on to me at all, despite the fact that I was wearing running shorts and a tight shirt.”

Mycroft chose not to reply, the memory of Laura in her skin-tight running gear imprinted into his eidetic memory.

“He only touched me once when I was losing my balance. Between the shoulder blades, to steady me. And instead of making my skin crawl, his touch felt warm. I wouldn’t say pleasant, but it was warm and I didn’t cringe. That’s when I decided I would use him to help me reach another milestone.” She paused. “Not to be on the verge of an anxiety attack each time a man accidentally touches me. That’s all.”

Mycroft tapped his fingers on the folder that lay before him. “Does he know any of this?”

“He doesn’t. And I hope it remains that way. I don’t want his pity and I don’t want him to help me because he’s being chivalrous. I want him to be as he is now. My new partner who approaches life with a healthy mix of pragmatism and sarcasm, experienced but not hardened, strange as it seems. I will tell him eventually but not yet.”

“May I ask why you came here and share all this with me?”

Her cool blue eyes met his. “Your brother mentioned your habit of… kidnapping people.”

“I do not kidnap anybody,” he said stiffly but she brushed it aside.

“Persuade them to step into one of your cars to be taken somewhere quiet. Whatever. You can imagine I do not react well to being taken anywhere against my will, and if what the lads said about you holds a grain of truth, then I’d rather have my cards out in the open. I need you to understand the nature of my interest towards Greg and I want you to know that I do not intend to… engage in sexual activities with him, as you so wonderfully British put it. I don’t think I can bear the intimate touch of a man ever again.”

Her mobile phone chimed and she glanced at the screen. “I must go now. Superintendent Stewart wishes to discuss the upcoming courses with his staff. I do hope that Greg will remain on board, he is really good.”

“I believe he will,” Mycroft smiled. “I think teaching agrees with him.”

They rose from their chairs and Laura extended her hand to him. “Thank you for your time, Mycroft. It’s probably unnecessary to say but I trust this conversation remains confidential.”

He took her hand. “What conversation?”

With a brief nod, she turned and crossed the office.  When she had reached the door, he called after her. “Laura!”

She stopped and turned around with a questioning look.  He made his way around his desk with her file in his hands. “I believe you have forgotten something.”

Her hands trembled just a little when she took the folder from him. “You don’t want to read it?”

“It is no longer necessary. You have told me all I needed to know, and more.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you. Thank you for coming to me, and thank you for sharing what you felt comfortable sharing. I don’t think I need to further investigate you. There’s been well enough of that.” After a brief pause he added, “I wonder whether you would agree to meet for dinner one day, or lunch, if you prefer. In a restaurant of your choosing, and you may bring your brother or your Aikido partner, if you wish.”

There was laughter in her eyes as she considered the careful invitation. “I think I should like that a lot, Mycroft. Lunch would be wonderful. You choose the restaurant, and I will bring my partner, DCI Lestrade. I believe you are acquainted?”

“Loosely.”

“You should try to get to know him better. He’s quite formidable, you know.”

“So I hear. I’ll see what I can do.”

When the door closed behind her, he poured himself another Glenlivet and sat down in one of the heavy armchairs, toying with his mobile phone.  He wondered how Greg dealt with things like that – coming face to face with crime victims.  Looking them in the eye, listening to their individual stories.  Facing the survivors, telling them a loved one had died.  While not all of his decisions resulted in people losing their lives, it did happen more often than not and while he was well aware of the losses on both sides, he very rarely had to deal with them personally. 

He wasn’t sure which version was less desirable – being exposed or being detached.

******

“Awww come _on,_ Mycroft, do I have to?” Greg groaned, every inch of his five foot ten frame radiating discomfort. 

Mycroft tsked. “It wasn’t too long ago that the prospect of a reception made you all giddy and excited.”

“Yeah, back when it was all new to me. Now?” He shuddered theatrically. “Boring. Dull.” He had Sherlock spot on, and Mycroft couldn’t suppress his grin. “And there’s dancing, too. You know I can’t dance, Myc.”

“Nonsense. You cut a very decent figure on the dancefloor.”

“And isn’t that Holmes speech for saying I suck. ‘Cut a decent figure’ my arse. I’m as graceful as a rhinoceros.”

“But an exceedingly handsome rhinoceros,” Mycroft pointed out and ducked laughingly when a cushion flew his way. “I like it when you dance with me.”

“Are you referring to the occasional swaying-on-the-spot type of dance or the more free-style horizontal variation?”

“Mhm.” Mycroft cocked his head as if in deep thought but when Greg picked up another cushion, he flung himself across the couch with surprising speed and came to land on Greg’s body, knocking the air right out of his lungs.

“Oof,” Greg gasped but his arms automatically went around Mycroft’s waist. “Anyone ever tell you you fight dirty?”

“Mhm,” Mycroft said again, his nose buried in the curve of Greg’s neck. “I believe I’ve heard that before.” He rolled his hips tentatively against Greg’s. “How about a brief refresher course?”

Greg tilted his head sideways to grant the nibbling lips better access to his neck. “The upright or the horizontal version?”

“I recall an upright version you seemed to like. It was in the shower, you were facing the wall and we were in perfect synchronicity.”

“Oh that,” Greg offered his throat. “That was fun, yeah. If I let you take the lead, will you show me again?”

“With pleasure.”

They didn’t make it to the shower.  However, the sitting room wall offered adequate support and Mycroft didn’t flinch when Greg accidentally swept the meticulously alphabetized music sheets off their small shelf, being preoccupied with leading them towards a mutually satisfying closure.

******

Greg gratefully reached for another drink and forced his features into a polite smile as he listened to yet another conspiracy theory on the latest goings-on in the Far East.  Didn’t these people have jobs to do?  Families to look after?  Hobbies?  More important things to do but applaud politely and write cheques to whatever charity cause caught their fancy?  And yet, here he was, meeting social obligations that had been pouring down on him since the moment he had committed himself to Mycroft Holmes.  It wasn’t as though Mycroft ever applied the proverbial thumbscrews, and there had been occasions where Greg had not been able to accompany him or had flat out refused.  But he knew that Mycroft liked it when Greg was by his side and that was good enough for him.  So he smiled and listened and smiled some more. 

The arrival of Chief Superintendent Peterson put him out of his misery, if only temporarily.

“Evening, Lestrade,” he greeted him jovially. “I see that you, too, have been forced to wear a bow tie and be a good boy.”

“Bow ties are cool,” Greg pointed out but of course the joke was wasted on his boss. 

Peterson emptied his glass in one swig and reached for another one. “Bloody pointless, if you ask me,” he said sourly. “I’d rather divert traffic in the City during rush hour.”

They shared a meaningful glance, then Peterson shrugged and peered around Greg. “Where is your, uh, partner?”

“Evading the small talk by taking the wives to the dance floor.”

“Lucky sod. I can’t tell my left foot from my right.”

“That makes two of us.”

Peterson squinted at the dance floor. “That’s nobody’s wife he’s dancing with right now. That’s Thompson.” He took another gulp. “Won’t you look at that.”

“Beautiful, isn’t she,” Greg said but Peterson had already spotted somebody else and wandered off, leaving Greg behind. 

Greg shook his head and watched as Mycroft and Laura glided effortlessly across the dance floor.  They made a striking couple – Mycroft, tall and elegant, impeccably dressed in a midnight blue three-piece suit, and Laura, breath-taking in a long, sleeveless evening dress of a deceptively simple cut.  Greg wasn’t necessarily an expert when it came to women’s evening dresses but thanks to his daughter’s endless speeches, he was now able to differentiate between elegant and extravagant, and Laura’s charcoal dress was elegant and timeless, with an off the shoulder neckline, tone-in-tone lace and diagonal pleats across her waist that would not do for anyone with even the tiniest amount of excess body fat.  Greg sighed and for a brief moment wondered where Mycroft’s career would be headed if he had a woman like Laura by his side instead of a greying man like himself.

She must have said something amusing because Mycroft wrinkled his long nose and laughed, never once missing a step.  Greg envied him for that.  He had danced a slow waltz with Laura and had done remarkably well but he suspected it had been more her doing than his.  A gentle nudge here and soft push there, and Greg was sure he had looked less clumsy than he felt.  He was glad that Mycroft seemed to have laid the ridiculous trace of jealousy to rest that he had displayed in the beginning, and that he and Laura were getting along well.  She appeared a bit more relaxed now than she used to be and had even begun to open up to Andy.  Then again, disliking Andy was like shoving a puppy away.

Just as he was to reach for another drink, Mycroft and Laura left the dance floor and headed towards him.

“Here’s your husband, chief inspector,” Laura announced cheerfully and removed her hand from Mycroft’s arm.

“But the dance isn’t over yet,” Greg said, puzzled.

“No it isn’t, but you looked like you’re ready to pounce, and I wasn’t sure whether you wanted to pounce on me or him.”

“What?” Greg felt heat creep up his neck. “I wasn’t gonna pounce anybody.”

“You weren’t?” She arched her eyebrows. “Damn. And to think I came up with a lame excuse of needing to use the… ah… powder room.” She shrugged. “Time to find a new dance partner, then. Oh, look, it’s my brother. Just when I needed him most. – Tony, dearest, dance with me?” She was gone and on the dance floor in a charcoal whirl and in the arms of a tall blond man who was every bit as striking as his sister.

“What a woman,” Mycroft observed, “and what a man, too. Beauty should be more evenly distributed.”

Greg shrugged. “How do you define beauty? Yeah, they’re beautiful, both of them. Tall, blond, hard bodies, great teeth. But they’re not…” he looked to the left and to the right as if to make sure nobody was within earshot, “… lickable.”

“And I am?” An auburn eyebrow arched up and Mycroft looked at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.  Greg’s tongue darted across his lips, wetting them, and Mycroft swallowed as he watched the pink tip appear and disappear again.

“God yes, you are.” The husky voice hit a nerve and Mycroft swallowed again. “When I saw you up there giving that opening speech? I got so hard that I hoped I wouldn’t have to leave the table for the next fifteen minutes. At least.”

“You’re being ridiculous. What was so sexy about the opening speech?”

“You were. I watched you from down here, all prim and proper, saying all the politically correct things with your haughtiest public school accent and using all those multi-syllable words while at the same time I knew it was only a matter of hours and I would have you in my arms, writhing and panting beneath me, opening your long legs and begging me to fuck you. Knowing that no-one else will ever get to see you like that.” He reached up and smoothed what was left of Mycroft’s formerly cheeky cowlick. “And that, my dear Holmes, is what it’s all about. This above all. You and me and no-one else.”

Mycroft nodded silently, at a loss for words.  He reached for Greg’s hand, intertwining their fingers, but whatever his reply might have been was effectively smothered when a large paw clamped down on his shoulder and a booming voice behind him said, “There you are, Holmes, I’ve been looking for you.”  He closed his eyes for a second, then forced a polite smile onto his face and turned around to greet the intruder.

“Sir Charles, what an unexpected pleasure. How may I be of service?”

“I want your opinion on whether or not I should motion for a greater involvement of law enforcement regarding…”

Mycroft politely interrupted him. “Forgive me, Sir Charles, but may I suggest including Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade in our discussion? His insight may be of value, given the fact that he represents law enforcement to a certain extent.”

“Splendid idea.” Sir Charles beamed and crushed Greg’s hand in one of his paws. “Lestrade. Is that French?”

“It is, Sir Charles. My grandfather was French. He served in the French Foreign Legion.”

“Interesting, very interesting. Well, here’s what’s been gnawing at me…”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged a small smile and then listened to what occupied Sir Charles’ mind.


	7. Chapter 7

“Well done, Lestrade, very well done indeed.”

Chief Superintendent Stewart bestowed one of his rare smiles on Greg.

“It is not every day that an entire group finishes an IMSC course with such excellent marks. Not a single one of your students has results below average. That is quite remarkable.”

“Thank you, sir,” Greg replied, returning the smile.  The good results of his class had come as a pleasant surprise – not that any of the young policemen and –women had given any reasons for concern –, and the feedback he had received from his students had without exception been positive. 

“Have you considered your initial offer? Are you still interested in teaching on a permanent basis?”

“I am.”

“Good. I am pleased to hear it. Ramsay’s maternity leave begins mid-August so you could step right in if you want to and if Peterson lets you go at such short notice. Furthermore, Carpenter retires in February so there’s a full-time position to be filled.”

“Ramsay’s position is part-time, is that correct?”

“It is,” Stewart confirmed. “You could pull out of active duty slowly and hand over a clean desk.”

“What are her working hours?”

“She teaches her courses full time and then pauses in between. You could either do that or teach in the mornings and Thompson takes over in the afternoon. That’s been done before and it’s worked fairly well. Except for the classes that are taught on site, obviously.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. Let me speak with Chief Superintendent Peterson and see what he has to say.”

“Oh, I can tell you what he’ll have to say.” Stewart raised his eyebrows.

“Well, the way I see it, he’s the one who encouraged me to teach this course.”

“Driving you right into my arms.”

“In a manner so speaking.” Greg said, grinning. “But I already have a successor in mind and in addition I have noticed a potential new recruit for the Homicide division. She’s bright and ambitious but not too career-driven.”

“Ah yes? And who’s that?”

“Constable Jordan. Short, compact, brunette.”

“Jordan,” Stewart pursed his lips. “I think I know her. Yes, I believe she’d be a good addition to your team.” He sat back down. “Well, best of luck with Peterson and again, congratulations. If Peterson decides to be difficult, let me know and I’ll speak to him as well.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

They shook hands and Greg headed back to his office.  On his way there, he dropped by Peterson’s office but seeing he wasn’t available, left a message requesting an appointment.  A note from Laura sat by his keyboard and he picked his phone up right way.

“Hi Laura, sorry I missed you over at the Academy but I was summoned into Stewart’s office.”

“So I thought. I spoke with him this morning, singing your praise, and he seemed duly impressed. As am I, by the way. Great job with that first course of yours.” Her smile was audible over the phone. “I’m proud of you, Greg. What are you going to do now?”

“Actually,” he walked around his desk to close the door, “I’d like to stay and continue teaching. Stewart suggested I step in for Ramsay and then maybe take over Carpenter’s position.”

“That would be great! Can you leave at such short notice?”

“I’m not sure, really, that’s why I need to speak to Peterson first.”

“Politics, your favourite, right?”

He sighed. “You got it. I mean, he’s the one who suggested it but being absent for three weeks is not the same as stepping down altogether.”

“Care to meet for lunch? Do you have time?”

“Well, I’ve just arrived at my desk. Give me two hours so I can catch up with the team and I’ll meet you at one-thirty. That okay?”

“Sure, I can arrange that. Where do you want to go?”

Greg shrugged. “You choose. You know I eat everything.”

“Good. I’ll think of something and text you the address, yes?”

“Perfect, thanks. See you then.”

“Later.”

They hung up and Greg reached for the paperwork requiring his signature.

 

The restaurant Laura had chosen was not far from one where he and Mycroft occasionally met for a quick lunch, a walk of fifteen minutes from New Scotland Yard.  She waved at him when he hurried towards the entrance.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“Not at all. I only got here a few minutes ago. I phoned ahead and made a reservation, to be on the safe side.”

“Good girl,” he said approvingly and she laughed.

“Thanks Dad.”

They didn’t have to wait for a long time to get seated and quickly chose from the lunch menu.  They chatted about commonplaces and the successful conclusion of Greg’s first course until their food arrived.  Greg tucked in, only now realising how hungry he was, until he noticed Laura was playing with her food rather than eating it.

“Laura, what is it?”

She put her fork down but didn’t answer right away.  He waited, patiently.  After a brief internal battle she finally looked up and into his eyes.

“Can you keep a secret, Greg?”

“I sure hope so. I’m married to one.”

She gave a small laugh. “True. So. For how long have you known Andy?”

“Andy? As in DI Rogers?”

“That’s the one.”

“We’ve been friends for, uh, let me think, some fifteen years or so. He’s a good bloke. Why? What has he done?”

“Nothing. He’s done nothing. I was just wondering… what’s he like, apart from being a good bloke?”

“He’s fun but not a prankster or anything. He can be serious, too, and he knows how to listen and keep things to himself. And you can call him in the middle of the night and he will come to your rescue.” He gave her a searching look. “Anything the matter?”

“He –” she hesitated, “he’s asked me out for dinner.”

“Oh wow! But that’s good, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“But?”

“I’m not sure if I should accept.”

“Why? He’s not seeing anyone right now, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just that –” she took a deep breath as if to brace herself. “Greg, I don’t know how to break it to you gently but... I got raped a couple of years ago and the idea of accepting a date freaks me out.”

Greg hissed. “Oh my God, Laura. That is terrible!”

She blinked rapidly. “I didn’t really want to tell you and I am sorry for dumping it on the lunch table like that. It’s just that I know you’re friends with Andy and I needed to speak with someone I trust.” She noticed she’d been scrunching up her napkin and hastily smoothed it. “You know, until a few weeks ago I thought I would never go out with a man again but there is something about Andy that’s just hard to resist.”

“He’s like a big puppy, right?”

“He is.” She managed a weak chuckle. “It’s just – I mean, do you think he’s very pushy? If I accept and the evening turns out nice, do you think he’d –”

“No,” Greg said in a firm voice. “He won’t. He’s not the grabby type, if that’s what you mean. He likes to flirt and play like any other bloke but he’s got very fine sensors, and unless you let him know his advances would be welcome, he won’t try and feel you up. Maybe a peck on the cheek when he drops you off, but nothing more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I would trust him with my life, and I don’t say that about an awful lot of people.”

“Thank you.” She slumped back in her chair, relieved, and after a few moments of silence picked up her fork and started eating. “I will hold you personally responsible if he behaves inappropriately.”

“You may. If he’s being an arsehole I will break his left kneecap.”

“And his right thumb.”

“And his right thumb.” Greg nodded resolutely and Laura gave him a shy little smile, very different from the self-confident face she usually showed the world.  For all that she was in her late thirties, she reminded Greg so much of his daughter that he had to suppress the urge to reach across the table to take her hand.  Christ, if anyone ever hurt Steph like that… best not go there.  So he nodded again and shifted the topic back to teaching.

******

At around the same time, Mycroft found himself once more waiting for Steph Lestrade at Paddington Station.  This time, there was no young man to be shooed away although she had a considerable amount of luggage to haul around.  Mycroft gave her an incredulous look when he slung her holdall around his shoulder and reached for the handle of her large suitcase.

“You know, you could always go home during the weekends and return with new clothes instead of bringing your entire wardrobe,” he suggested.

“Mycroft, that is hardly my entire wardrobe. Just my favourite pieces,” Steph pointed out. “Besides, Mum is going on a holiday with her new boyfriend.”

“And you don’t have a key?”

“I’d rather stay with you and Dad. And Chris is coming to stay for a week, too.” She beamed up at him. “I wouldn’t want to miss one day. We’re going to have so much fun, the four of us!”

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure about that but had been helpless once the Lestrades had turned their secret weapon against him – their large brown puppy eyes.  It was an art form all three of them mastered to perfection and there was nothing Mycroft could do about it.  His superior negotiation skills failed him every time.  Not that they ever demanded anything of him that made him truly uncomfortable, but a gentle nudge here or there and suddenly Mycroft found himself agreeing to things he wouldn’t have bothered thinking about a moment ago.  Like letting Steph stay for three weeks during summer break for her work experience with his tailor, Mr O’Reilly.  He had conveniently forgotten about it and had been genuinely surprised when Greg had announced their summer guest the week before.

“Aren’t the summer holidays a bit early this year? I seem to recall they start around the end of July.”

“That depends on where you go to school. Plus, our school needs some renovation done and for whatever reason the scaffolding people weren’t available during August and so we’re off a bit sooner.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Nothing wrong with early holidays.”

“And how convenient that Mr O’Reilly has scheduled the work experience for your first three weeks.”

“Yes, isn’t that amazing?” She looked up at him from under long lashes and he laughed.

“I almost pity him. He has no idea what evil he has invited into his sanctum.”

“Oh, but I will not cause any trouble,” she said with a little pout. “I really want to learn from him, and I can’t wait to start! Did you know I made a waistcoat and a tie for Chris?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Did you bring photos?”

“Did I bring – Mycroft, really. Of course I did. They’re for the ball, you know. Which reminds me –” She stopped dead in her tracks. “I forgot to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Can you teach us to dance?”

“What?”

“Chris and I can’t dance but there’s this ball in Cambridge he wants to go to, and he doesn’t want to go to a dance school. Dad says you’re a good dancer.” She reached for his hand. “Please, Mycroft?”

Oh the puppy eyes.  Mycroft laughed softly and was about to answer when his mobile phone went off.  He pulled it out, looked at the screen and accepted the call with an apologetic look.

“Yes?”

“Sir, there’s been news on the whereabouts of Kristian Svendsen,” a female voice informed him.  He frowned.

“Can I ring you back in a few moments? I’m not free to speak right now.”

“Of course.”

He disconnected the call and turned to Steph. “Apologies for that. So, I’m supposed to teach you and your brother how to dance?”

“That would be wonderful! You know, you could teach me first so Chris has a female partner when he comes. It will make things easier for him.”

“Why? Do you think I can’t handle the woman’s steps, or would he feel uncomfortable dancing with me?”

“No, not that. You would hate dancing with him.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s got Dad’s sense of rhythm.”

“Oh dear.”

They exchanged a look and grinned.

“Very well, chit. I will teach you first. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. Waltz, quickstep, foxtrot. Ballroom dancing, you know. Not the whole range, just the most common ones so we don’t look like complete idiots.”

“We shall strive to avoid that by all means. I’ll do my very best.”

They reached the car and Steph greeted Jeremy with one of her sunny smiles.

“Hello Jeremy. Careful with the luggage, it’s heavy. Mycroft has already ticked me off for that.”

“Miss Lestrade, pleasure to see you again. I believe I can handle your luggage.” He held the door open for her but before she could get in, Mycroft placed a hand on her arm.

“Steph, would you mind taking the passenger seat next to Jeremy? I need to make a phone call and I am afraid it’s confidential. Jeremy,” he turned to face his driver, “would you please close the partition as soon as we leave? And careful with the luggage,” he repeated Steph’s words, “it really is heavy.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes.”  Despite the warning, a surprised grunt escaped him when he lifted the suitcase into the boot but he managed to keep his features under control.  Mycroft and Steph took their seats, and as soon as the partition was in place, he redialled the number that had called him.

“Ruth. Thank you for waiting. What’s the news?”

“We have located Svendsen’s whereabouts. He’s in the company of one man and one woman, Liane Tinning from Esbjerg, Denmark. The man’s ID is still outstanding but Tinning’s already been connected to Magnussen’s inner circle. Team’s on standby, awaiting your instruction, sir.”

“Bring them in. All three of them. Who’s leading the team?”

“O’Donnell.”

“Not good. Is Connolly on the team as well?”

“I believe she is.”

“Do you believe she is or do you know she is?” He heard rustling of paper over the phone. “Well?”

“She is, sir.”

“Remove O’Donnell from position alpha and have Connolly take over.”

“But sir, he will not –”

“I’m not interested in what O’Donnell will or will not do,” he said sharply. “He’s a good man but we do not need blunt force here. Connolly is better suited for this kind of operation. O’Donnell will have ample opportunity to shine some other time. That’ll be all.”

“Sir.”

He disconnected the call and speed-dialled another number, drumming the fingers of his left hand against his thigh while he waited for his brother to pick up.

“Yes Mycroft, what is it?” Sherlock sounded impatient.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Sherlock. I trust you are well?”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“Svendsen has been located.”

“Svendsen?”

“Kristian Svendsen. The man who drove the blue van that hit you?”

“Oh, Svendsen. What of him?”

Mycroft frowned at the indifference in his brother’s voice. “I’m having him and his team secured and brought in for questioning.”

“Good. You do that.”

“Sherlock, why am I getting the impression you’re not interested any longer?”

There was silence at the other end.  In the background, Mycroft heard the laughter of a child and a male voice joining in.  He pursed his lips.  There was his answer.  Plain as day.

“I see,” he softly said. “Do I have your permission to proceed as I see fit?”

“Do what you have to. Just please,” Sherlock lowered his voice, “please, Mycroft, make sure John and Emily stay safe. No-one must hurt them, ever. Can you do that?”

“I can’t predict the future but for now, I promise I will do what I can to keep them safe.”

“Fair enough.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Good choice.”

“Mhm.”

Mycroft clicked the off button, lowered the phone and tapped his index finger to his chin.  Interesting development.  He leaned forward and pushed the intercom button.

“Jeremy, you may lower the partition.”

Steph looked back over her shoulder and waved at him, smiling.  He returned her smile and waited for the partition to vanish.

“Well, Steph, tell me about that ball Chris wants to attend so badly. Is it in the hope of impressing a young lady?”

“No, it’s to do with an overseas scholarship. It’s for next year, and it’s in America.”

“Really? Do you happen to know where?”

She knit her brows in thought. “It’s on the East Coast. The MTI? Or something like that?”

“The MIT? Interesting.”

Steph shrugged her shoulders. “I think it’s too early. He’s only been in Cambridge for two semesters but he thinks it’s a great thing, studying in the States.” She made a face. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I would hate it if he’s gone. And what if the FBI snatches him up?”

“The FBI? Why would they do that?”

“You know he wants to be the next Q.”

“He still does?”

“Yeah. He’s developed this boy crush on the bloke in Skyfall and says he’s so much better already.”

“Is he now. Interesting.”

“Yeah, and what if the FBI or the spy agency hear of his good marks? I saw a documentary on how they sometimes recruit straight from the universities. I don’t want Chris to stay in America. I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as the films make us believe.”

“It is not,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Don’t tell him I said that, and please don’t tease him about the boy crush.” She twisted in her seat so she could look at him. “He likes girls, you know, it’s just that he said the actor was cute with his curls.”

“There is no shame in acknowledging good looks.”

“Of course there isn’t. But you know how boys are." Her eyes held an earnest expression that made her look older than her fifteen years. "It’s not easy for him.” 

“What isn’t?”

She chewed her lower lip. “I think that sometimes he’s having a hard time because of, well,” she lowered her eyes, “you and Dad.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“He doesn’t talk about it much but yeah, I think so.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that. Should I speak to him about it?”

“Oh no, please don’t. I think he wants to handle this himself. I don’t think it’s really bad, you know, nobody beats him up or anything, it’s just that sometimes somebody says something rude and he gets angry.”

“How about you?”

She made a dismissive sound. “I don’t care what others say. They’re stupid. You and Dad are great and I’m happy he’s found you. And I’m happy that Mum’s got a new boyfriend, too. Dan is really nice and he doesn’t pretend to be my father, you know, telling me what to do and stuff. Two of my classmates are going through horrible times with their parents. It’s nothing but fight fight fight for them because their divorce is so ugly. It’s so much better for Chris and me.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just don’t listen.” She turned to Jeremy. “Sorry you had to hear all that family crap.”

“No worries, Miss Lestrade. It will not leave this car.”

“Thank you.” She looked at Mycroft. “Do you think we can start with the dancing tonight?”

“I’m sure we can arrange that. Your father is making dinner tonight and he has told me in no uncertain terms I better make it home in time. So yes, we can start tonight.”

“Yaay!” She clapped her hands together. “You’re the best!”

Mycroft smiled at her enthusiasm but made a mental note to himself to discuss Chris with Greg that evening.

******

“And how is the Jedi master doing today?”

Greg looked over his shoulder. “Greetings, young padawan. Come to disturb my peace, have you? Wait for a few moments you must.”

He redirected his attention to Paul and Thomas. “We need to consider the possibility their alibis might actually be watertight. In that case I want you to grill their co-workers, their neighbours, hell, pull their dogs in if they can talk. Do some canvassing. Get Miller to go over the CCTV footage one more time. I wish I could send you into their offices and flats for a thorough search while they’re gone but sadly, this is not a TV show. We’ll have to wait for the court order.”

“When will we see that?”

“Absolutely no idea. Has it been applied for yet?”

“We haven’t put in for one yet,” Andy said from behind. “In fact, we wanted to discuss the latest findings with you first, see what you have to say.”

“Well, you just heard me. Get to it. Rogers, into my office, if you please.”

They crossed the open space area and stepped into Greg’s office.  He closed the door behind them, sat down and gestured for Andy to take one of the visitors’ chairs.

“Anything the matter, Greg? What was that all about?”

“Andy, you need to grow some bollocks if you want to take over.”

“What’s wrong with my – what?”

“It’s time you made your own decisions with the team. I won’t be around forever, you know.”

Andy sat up straight. “Greg, you’re making me nervous. What is it?”

“I’m going to be teaching full-time. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last weeks and my mind’s made up. I really enjoyed giving that course and apparently I haven’t done too badly. Stewart suggested I start part-time and take over full-time early next year.”

“Wow. I mean –” he scratched his head, “good for you, but what about us?”

“What about you?”

“If you leave, it’ll be hard for us.”

“Nonsense.” Greg made a dismissive gesture. “No-one is irreplaceable. Homicide will not crumble to dust because I’ve decided on a career change. I’ve asked Peterson for an appointment so I can let him know and ask for the transfer process to begin, and I also want to propose a successor.” He gave Andy a pointed look. “Unless you’re not ready?”

“What, take over from you? Seriously?”

“Seriously. I think you’d be a good team leader. Want to sleep on it? I don’t think I’ll get to speak to Peterson today anyway.”

“No, I’d love the challenge. Thanks, mate. Does Mycroft know?”

“Of course he does. I think it’s going to be easier for us if I step away from the firing line.”

“Potential conflicts of interest?”

“Yeah. It’d only get more difficult. His responsibilities are piling up.”

“Promotion coming up?”

“Not sure. Possibly. Hard to tell. In any case, it’ll be easier if only one of us cranks up his career.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to make lunchboxes for him.”

“Sssh, don’t tell him but I’m learning how to slice cucumbers.”

“And radishes?”

“And radishes. Watercress, too.”

“Damn Greg, you’ll be the perfect housewife in no time.”

“Feel free to drop by any time. I’ll even cut the breadcrust off for you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He inspected his fingernails. “Guess what.”

“Hm?”

“I asked Laura out for dinner and she said yes.” He beamed. “Can you believe that? I’m taking Laura Thompson out for dinner.”

“Good, glad to hear it. She’s great.” He toyed with his pen. “Listen, whatever your plans, take it extra slow with her, yeah?”

Andy frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not my secret to share, Andy. Just, please, be all the gentleman you can be, alright?”

“I hadn’t planned to force myself on her, you know. Just dinner. Then take it from there.” He pushed back the chair and stood up. “You coming to the pub tonight?”

“Nope, not tonight. My daughter’s staying for a few weeks and I promised I’d make dinner tonight.”

Andy shook his head. “House-broken and domesticated. Mycroft’s a lucky man. Well then, let me go and flash my bollocks for the whole team to see.”

Greg reached for his mobile. “You do that. Just make sure Donovan’s not within sight. She’s quick with a knife, you know.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Andy gave an exaggerated shudder. “That would be painful.”

“Yeah it would be. Off you go. You’ve got a court order to apply for, right?”

“Yes boss.” He gave a mock salute and turned to go back to the small corner office he’d been given.  Greg followed him with his eyes, then opened the screen of his mobile phone.  It had chirped during his conversation with Andy and he clicked on the messenger icon.  A photo of Steph and Mycroft popped up and Greg immediately saved it to his phone’s memory card.  Mycroft hated ‘selfies’ with a passion but Steph dragged him in front of a camera whenever she had the chance.  She stuck to the promise she had given him and never posted their photos on her blogs or any other website, public or private, but she sent them to Greg for his little collection.  After all of their phones and other devices had been tamper-proofed by Mycroft’s team, even he didn’t object to her sending snapshots to her father.  Greg touched his finger to Mycroft’s face, smiling at the nose crinkle that only showed when Mycroft was truly relaxed and his smile was a real one – proof of how comfortable he had become around Greg’s children.  Mycroft wasn’t the only lucky man around.

Still smiling, he started his computer and opened his inbox.  He had already read some of his messages and deleted some others using his mobile account, but some of the attachments needed to be opened on a computer screen and not on a phone. 

He clicked on the first message and started reading.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg stood stock-still while his daughter knelt before him, measuring tape in her hands, pencil between her lips, mumbling something unintelligible and pausing only to scribble something into her small notebook.  He felt slightly uncomfortable standing on the small stool in only a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs, but Steph had insisted she needed practice taking measurements.

“You know, I’ve been doing it wrong all this time,” she finally said, sitting back on her heels. “I had no idea. Mr O’Reilly said if I learn to do it right, he’ll let me buy some second quality cloth at a special discount.”

“Mr O’Reilly has second quality cloth in his sacred domain?”

“Yes but he doesn’t use it. Well, not for actual suits.” She gave him a look. “Seriously, Dad, you don’t think he’ll use it for his customers?”

“Why does he have it then?”

“Well, for when he takes on an apprentice. Or a… trainee.”

“Mhm.” He shifted on his feet. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost. I need your right inseam as well. And the outer seam.”

“But you got my left leg already. My legs are of the same length,” he protested.

“Dad.” She snapped the measuring tape and glared at him.

He sighed, all too familiar with that particular tone. “Alright. Right leg it is.”

Steph gave him a sunny smile and took the desired measurements swiftly and efficiently, reducing the awkwardness of ‘feeling her old man up’, as he had half-jokingly complained, to a minimum.  When she was finally done, he stepped off the stool with a heartfelt sigh and pulled his jeans back on.

“Your skin is very different from Mycroft’s,” she observed as she rolled the measuring tape together.

“Oh no!” He looked at her, alarmed. “Did you make him strip for you, too?”

“Dad!” She giggled. “I asked him. Very nicely.”

“And he said yes? Just like that?”

“He gave me one of his looks,” she delivered a spot-on imitation of Mycroft staring along his long nose and Greg laughed. “But then he said, ‘very well’ and that was that. He’s a lot better at this than you are. He didn’t squirm once.”

“He’s used to it. I’m not.”

“But you wear better suits now, too.”

“Mine are ready-made. His are tailored.”

“But why?”

“Chit, do you have any idea how much these suits cost? And I will not have Mycroft pay for my clothes. That’s out of the question.”

She worried her lower lip. “Will you let me make a suit for you? We can look at the cloth together and if you like something, we’ll buy it. Mr O’Reilly said he'd help me select a pattern from one of the more classic cuts, you know.”

“Mr O’Reilly seems to have taken quite a liking, hm?”

“Dad, please, he’s at least fifty years old.”

“Ancient.”

“A dinosaur.”

“Come now,” he pulled at one of her blond strands, much like he had done when she was younger. “Must I remind you that your father has reached that ripe old age as well?”

“Oh!” One of her hands flew to her mouth, covering it, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “That’s right. My Dad’s _old_.” She kissed his cheek. “But you don’t look fifty, even though you’re grey and he isn’t.”

“Thank you, Steph,” he meekly said. “I feel a lot better now.” He followed her into the kitchen. “And how do my measurements compare to Mycroft’s?”

“Please. You’re two very different body types. You don’t compare at all.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel good or bad?”

“It’s good. Opposites attract, right?”

He huffed in mock despair and she gave him an innocent look from under long lashes, then filled the kettle and switched it on while Greg reached for their favourite mugs.  She studied the tea selection with an intent look and chose a loose white tea blend that smelt faintly of spiced peaches.

“That’s probably one of Mycroft’s, right?” She grinned and put a teaspoon into the filter, careful not to spill the leaves. “You’re not really the peach tea type.”

“Again, good or bad?”

“Dad,” she rolled her eyes, just a little. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged a shoulder and picked his favourite tea. “Put it down to a mild case of midlife crisis, maybe.”

“What?”

He made a sheepish face. “You and Chris are all grown up, and I’m stepping down from active police work,” he shrugged again, more resolutely this time, as if pulling himself back on track. “Forget it. I’m being silly.”

“You are,” Steph sternly said. “You sound like you’re eighty and about to move into an old people’s home.”

The kettle clicked and Greg poured boiling water into his mug.  Steph pulled hers out of the danger zone.

“Never make white tea with boiling water,” she said, and he put the kettle back. “So what’s this about you and your midlife crisis? I thought you were happy about teaching full time?”

“I am, and I’m looking forward to it. But it still feels strange. It’s a bit like becoming the part-time housewife to Mycroft’s stellar career.” He frowned. “And I have no idea why I’m telling my fifteen year-old daughter.”

“Dad, please,” she gave his arm a squeeze, “didn’t you just say Chris and I are all grown up? What’s wrong with you telling me things?”

“I shouldn’t burden you with my nonsense.”

She made an impatient noise. “Bollocks,” she said in perfect imitation of her brother. “You’re not burdening me. Don’t be ridiculous.” She poured water over her tea leaves, arranged Greg’s mug and hers on a small tray, along with a saucer for teabag and filter and a small box of biscuits, and walked into the living room where she nestled down into her favourite corner of the spacious couch.  Greg followed her example, kicked off his shoes and sat down cross-legged opposite his daughter.

“While we’re discussing serious family business, what’s that I hear about Chris getting an earful about his father turning gay?” He blew over his steaming tea in the hope of cooling it down. “How bad do you think it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She picked a biscuit and sniffed it before taking a small bite.  When she found it was to her liking, she made quick work of it. “He doesn’t talk about it much and I’m not sure how bad it really is. I mean, he’s still staying here for a week and he’s meeting Mycroft for an early supper right now –”

“He is?” Greg looked up from his cup, surprised. “He didn’t tell me.”

“It wasn’t planned. Mycroft rang him when we were out shopping, and you know how it is. Mycroft calls, and Chris drops everything. He hero-worships him, and I think if all the teasing makes him angry it’s because it’s Mycroft’s honour that needs defending, not his own. And yours,” she added hastily. “He really doesn’t care about the whole gay marriage thing, you know, and neither do I. You and Mummy still get along and Dan’s a great guy and you know I like Mycroft a lot, too. And that’s what counts, yeah? Not the gay or straight labels.”

Greg looked at his daughter, slightly stunned. “That’s very, uh –,” he cleared his throat, put his mug down and leaned over to kiss Steph’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“You and Mummy raised us well,” she winked, “and besides, I mean you cannot seriously watch Doctor Who and Torchwood and be okay with Oods and Weevils and Daleks, and then freak because your Dad kisses a man.”

He snorted. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“It’s the only way, right? And Mycroft is very handsome. Too bad he doesn’t have a son.”

“Don’t tell him I said that but sometimes I think so, too. It ends with him and Sherlock, and that’s a crying shame.”

“Sherlock doesn’t like women either?”

“Sherlock doesn’t like most people,” Greg said. “With the sole exception of John Watson. And Emily.”

“But he likes you, doesn’t he?”

“You can never be too sure about him but yes, I think I’m amongst the chosen ones whose company he finds tolerable.” He took a careful sip. “So how’s the dancing coming along?”

“Oh, it’s brilliant!” She beamed and launched into an excited description of what she had learnt so far and how she would go about teaching her brother, too.  That, of course, led into a detailed outline of what she would wear to the ball and how she would match Chris’ outfit to her dress.  Greg nodded and smiled with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, his inner eyes glazing over.

“Are you coming, too?”

“Mhm?”

“Are you coming to the ball, too?”

“I don’t know. Am I invited?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Well, let’s ask Chris when he comes home.”

“If he does extend his invitation to me, I hope you don’t plan on dancing with me. I am not precisely the most graceful of dancers.”

They grinned at each other, and Steph said good-naturedly, “But you can manage a slow waltz or a simple foxtrot, can’t you?”

“If I absolutely have to.”

“Alright then. If Chris wants you to come, you’ll practise with Mycroft, too, okay?”

“Okay. I promise.”

They solemnly toasted each other with their tea mugs, then Greg reached for the remote control.

“Mind if I watch the news? I’m hardly ever home at this time of day and I’d like to see what’s been going on.”

“Sure,” Steph said with a generous air. “I’ll just get my tablet and see what everybody’s been up to.”

She rose and walked over to the dining room table where she had put her precious tablet to re-charge.  Greg followed her with his eyes, shook his head and congratulated himself on the fact that both of his children had turned out to be such remarkable persons.  No need to fling himself into a midlife crisis.  None at all.  With a content sigh, he leaned back against the cushions and switched the evening news on.

******

“Are you serious?”

Mycroft permitted himself the luxury of a public chuckle and exchanged a glance with the man sitting at the left corner of the table.  The man tilted his head almost imperceptibly, and Mycroft directed his gaze to Chris who looked at him out of eyes that were huge and round.

“Provided your background check comes back clean I don’t see why you shouldn’t be invited to apply for the chance to assist with one of the less sensitive projects.”

“That would be fantastic!” Chris noticed he had raised his voice and took a deep breath, struggling to get himself back under control. “But how, uh, how would this be organised? I mean, I can hardly apply for a work experience with the –” He stopped in mid-sentence when Mycroft raised his hand.

“Careful. No name-dropping. Daniel?”

The quiet man at the corner folded his hands on the table and leaned forward.

“We will contact your faculty dean in the same manner as usual, meaning we will officially write to him and request interviews with three students whose academic achievements have been brought to our attention. Interviews will be set up, assessments will be made and a decision will be taken. Two of your fellow students have performed exceptionally well, just like yourself, but as we have only one opening, you will have to compete.”

Mycroft nodded.

“On a personal level I would invite you to interview right away but you must understand that favouritism is out of the question.”

Chris’ dark eyes flared up.

“I don’t want any favours,” he said heatedly. “I mean, it’s great that I can talk to you just like that, but other than that, I don’t want to be treated any different.”

“If I had thought otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Mycroft pointed out mildly. “You’re on your own from now on. Mr Fitzcarlton will proceed as discussed and you will hear from your dean.”

“Precisely.” Fitzcarlton checked his watch, rose and smoothed his jacket. “Please excuse me. I’m afraid my schedule does not allow for a prolonged stay.”

“Understood. Thank you for making time to meet with us.” Mycroft rose, too, and they shook hands. 

Chris hastily got to his feet and made an awkward bow. “Thanks so much for talking to me,” he said, eagerly pumping Fitzcarlton’s hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr Lestrade. Enjoy your meal, and I look forward to hearing from you.”

When Fitzcarlton was out of sight, Chris breathed, “Man, that was awesome.”

“Relax, Chris.” Mycroft signalled for the menus to be brought. “Fitzcarlton is just another human being.”

“But he’s –”

“– he’s somebody looking for an able student to assist with one of his projects. Nothing more, nothing less. Thank you,” he said to the young woman. “I’ll have a water. Sparkling, please.”

“Diet Coke for me, please,” Chris said with one of his disarming smiles and the waitress smiled back, showing delightful dimples.  Mycroft sighed inwardly.  At almost 18, Chris was already developing an alarming knack for flirtation, putting the Lestrade trademark – the dark-eyed puppy look – to devastating use.  Fortunately both Steph and Chris had sensible heads on their shoulders and so far, Mycroft had yet to detect a scheming trait in either of them.

They studied their menus in silence but it didn’t take any particular deducing skills to tell Chris was trying hard to keep a firm lid on the questions that no doubt were bubbling up inside of him.  His self-discipline was admirable, and Mycroft felt something akin to paternal pride.  He would never have expected to become so fond of two teenagers, even setting aside generous portions of his meagre spare time to pick them up at the train station or take them out to lunch or dinner, even arrange a meeting with Daniel Fitzcarlton, in charge of MI 5’s ‘Q Section’, the very department Chris longed to work at.  He had never taken a personal interest before, had been very cautious about not even hinting at favouritism, but Chris’ stellar grades, his lightning quick intellect and almost uncanny understanding of complicated technical contexts had convinced him to break his iron rule this once.  He would not push any further, however.  Chris would indeed be on his own from now on, either passing the assessment tests or failing, but there was little doubt in him Chris would beat his fellow students by far.  And Steph… he stifled a grin, remembering how she had coaxed him into having his measurements taken. 

Chris must have noticed his lips twitch because he looked up from his menu. “What is it, Mycroft?” He sounded anxious. “Did I do anything wrong?”

“Not at all. I was thinking about your sister.”

“Oh no,” Chris put the menu down. “What has she done now?”

“She made me strip to my underwear so she could take my measurements,” Mycroft said, grinning.

“She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because you and your sister are not so very different when it comes to pursuing a goal.”

“Is she going to make a suit for you?”

“Not quite yet. But I understand she’s made a tie and a waistcoat for you already?”

“She has,” Chris said with brotherly pride. “And they look really sharp. You would never know they’re handmade by an amateur.”

“Careful now,” Mycroft said, chuckling. “Don’t let her hear you call her an amateur.”

Chris shrugged. “You know what I mean. If she really ends up a professional seamstress, I’m ordering all of my future suits from her.”

“Again, careful with your choice of words. It’s not seamstress, it’s cutter. And I’m fairly certain it’s not a question of ‘if’ she becomes a cutter but ‘when’.”

“You really think so?”

“There’s certainly talent. Otherwise Mr O’Reilly would never have agreed to this arrangement. Are you planning to wear tie and waistcoat to that mysterious ball she’s hinted at?”

“What ball – oh, that.” He furrowed his brow. “You know, I’m not so sure about this any longer.”

“About what?”

“The ball. I was planning to, well, snatch up a few contacts, you know. There’s going to be MIT people there and I thought it would be a good thing to plan a term abroad over there. But now I’m not so sure if it’s still necessary, I mean, if I could land that job with Mr Fitzcarlton, then I wouldn’t need to worry about meeting the right people any longer, would I?”

“Never underestimate the power of a solid network. Besides, the MIT is a prime address and you should definitely consider your options.”

“Steph doesn’t seem to think so.”

The waitress returned with their drinks.

“Thanks,” Chris smiled his sunny smile.

“May I take your orders?” The young woman’s dimples showed again and Chris’ smile deepened.  Mycroft cleared his throat.

“The chargrilled vegetable salad, please.”

“Very well.”

“And the lasagne for me.” Chris held up the menus for the waitress which earned him another smile. 

“Thank you.” She turned and left.  Chris followed her with his eyes.

“Your sister worries about you,” Mycroft said, picking up where they had left off.

“She always does,” Chris smiled crookedly. “One would think she’s the older sibling, the way she always fusses.”

“She means well.”

“I know. But I make my own decisions.”

“And you should. But I believe Steph is looking forward to going to that ball.”

“Do you think –” He pressed his lips together in mid-sentence.

“Yes?” Mycroft said encouragingly.

“Would you have time to come, too?”

“To the ball?”

“Yes. We are allowed to bring a partner and our parents, if we want to. Steph’s going to be my partner, obviously, because I don’t have a girlfriend right now.”

“Chris, I’m not your parent,” Mycroft pointed out but Chris shrugged dismissively.

“Well, you’re Dad’s husband, and that makes you my stepfather, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Mycroft carefully said. “But do you think that’s wise? Wouldn’t you rather ask your mother and her partner to come?”

“Mum has to be in Edinburgh that week for a dialysis congress or something. I already asked her.”

“So I’m the next best thing, then?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Chris’ ears turned pink.

“That’s not how I meant it.”

“I know. Forgive my feeble attempt at teasing. I would be delighted but I don’t wish to cause any trouble. Showing up with two fathers might put you into an awkward situation.”

“What do you mean? Oh, what would my mates say?” He snorted. “Let them try.”

“May I ask whether the subject has come up yet?”

“Well, yeah, once or twice. I mean, it’s not like I’m discussing my family life much but I’m not making a secret of it when people ask me. So yeah, I’ve been given some bullshit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It’s hardly your fault some people are so stupid.” He took a gulp from his glass. “Anyway, nobody’s made any fun of me since the last major discussion.”

“Because?”

“I’m the strokeman of my rowing team. I also train with the boxing team, although I don’t step into the ring myself. I just like the workout.” He flexed his biceps with a grim smile. “So, call my Dad a poof and we’ll continue outside.”

“I see.” Mycroft knew better than to launch into a speech about violence not solving anything.  Young pups needed to set their boundaries and not everything could be talked through peacefully.  After talking to Steph in the car, he had been worried about Chris but as soon as he had spotted the young man making his way towards him outside the restaurant, he had known there was no need to be worried about Chris being bullied about.  Chris Lestrade was now as tall as his father, with a trim and powerful body, looking nothing like a shy science geek at all.  Mycroft had no doubt he could hold himself in a fight if need be.

“In that case, I will gladly come to your ball. Provided my schedule allows.”

“Of course.”

“And provided you will allow me to dance with your sister.”

“Yeah, uh, about that.” Chris fumbled with his napkin. “I don’t know how to dance. That’s the one part that really makes me nervous. All this talk about a ball and network-building, and I can’t even dance a foxtrot.”

“That can easily be changed.”

“Dance lessons? Ugh.” He made a face. “I don’t want to go to a dancing school.”

“That won’t be necessary. Your sister has seen to that.”

“Why does that make me feel nervous?”

“I’ve been teaching her the basics and with your permission, we’ll teach you, too.”

“Oh God, Mycroft, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

“Steph just doesn’t know where to stop. I mean, making you strip. Making you teach her how to dance. She’s just so embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t call her embarrassing.”

“What other word is there?”

“Determined.”

Chris made a sound between laughter and a groan. “If you say so.”

“I do. No need to fret, Chris. Your sister’s requests may be a bit unusual but they’re still within acceptable boundaries. ‘s all good.”

“That’s one of Dad’s phrases.”

“Dear me,” Mycroft said in mock alarm. “I’ll be saying ‘bollocks’ next.”

Chris stifled a laugh and Mycroft leaned back in his chair.

“Tell me about your studies and your MIT plans.”

Chris’ dark eyes lit up. “Well, you see, the other day I was running a plausibility check on one of my models because somehow, the scatterplot seemed all off…”

By the time their food arrived, Mycroft was torn between amusement and the wish for an off button.  Luckily he understood enough of the matter to make appropriate remarks when they were expected, but somewhere between the tautochrone and the multivariable calculus he started losing his grip on the details and idly wondered whether Sherlock with his scientifically shaped mind would be able to contribute anything useful to the rather one-sided conversation.

The arrival of the lasagne, however, helped to yank Chris back into reality, and in between bites he started chatting happily about university life in general and the idea of spending a year at Boston’s MIT. 

 

When Greg joined Mycroft in bed three hours later, he was pulled into a sleepy embrace.

“Two more weeks with your children and I’m ready for a month off.”

Greg chuckled against Mycroft’s neck. “That bad, huh?”

“I thought I could handle all kinds of stress level but this –”

“It’s called teenagers, love.” Greg pressed a kiss to the hollow of Mycroft’s throat. “Don’t admit defeat or they’ll walk all over you.”

“I’m afraid it’s already begun.” Mycroft suppressed a yawn. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

“Not a word,” Greg promised. “I’ll back you up. Besides, Chris is only staying for a week. Oh, and he’s seeing Sherlock tomorrow. Something about an equation not working out.”

“Lord have mercy on his soul.”

Greg didn’t know whether it was Chris’ or Sherlock’s soul Mycroft was worried about but as Mycroft was barely able to keep his eyes open any longer, he kissed the tip of his nose and turned around to sleep on his preferred right side.  Mycroft put his arm around his waist and fell asleep within moments.  Greg listened to his regular breathing and smiled into the darkness.

The mighty Mycroft brought down by a teenage boy.  What was the world coming to?


	9. Chapter 9

“You know I’m not actually a chemist,” Chris said, dubiously eyeing Sherlock’s notes.

“What? Oh.” Sherlock looked up from his mobile, put it in his pocket and started rummaging around on the kitchen table. “Wrong one. Nope, not that one either. Wrong again. _John!_ ” he yelled over his shoulder. “Notebook. Orange cover. Green writing. Where is it?”

“Oven,” came the prompt reply from somewhere at the other end of the flat and Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as if disgusted by his own forgetfulness.

“Oven. Of course.”

Chris watched him fish something orange out of the oven but wisely chose not to comment. He had heard enough about Sherlock Holmes and his ways and besides, he was curious why he had been summoned. According to his, Chris’, father, Sherlock possessed some kind of uberbrain and even Mycroft credited his little brother with being ‘exceptionally bright’. So what kind of problem could possibly require the assistance of a mere student?

He waited patiently, not saying a word until Sherlock had found what he had been looking for.

“Here,” he handed Chris the notebook. “Look at this and the following pages. This doesn’t add up at all. What am I missing?”

Chris reached for the small book and looked at the line Sherlock had pointed out to him. As he read the notes, written with green ink in a handwriting so precise that it looked almost stencilled, he felt his eyebrows creep up his forehead.

“This is fascinating,” he said in a hushed voice and leafed through the pages. “This doesn’t seem to make sense at all, and yet –” He waved for Sherlock to come closer. “See here? If you replace β³ with τ², see how it all changes?”

“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed and peered over Chris’ shoulder. “But what does it have to do with the GPS coordinates of the Tate Gallery?”

“Huh?” Chris looked up. “Tate Gallery?”

“Sherlock!” John had appeared in the doorway, leaning on his crutches, and gave Sherlock a look of utter indignation. “You’re not involving Lestrade’s son in the Pearman’s case!”

“Pearman’s case?” Chris looked at Sherlock who had the grace to appear slightly embarrassed.

“I’m not involving him, John.”

“Oh you’re not?”

“I’m merely asking for his opinion. As a fellow scientist.”

“Bullshit.” John narrowed his eyes and limped closer. “You never ask for anybody’s opinion.” He turned to face Chris. “Sorry about this. I should have thought there was something fishy about his sudden desire to socialise.”

Sherlock huffed but didn’t say anything.

“Really, John, it’s fine,” Chris said. “It’s no trouble at all. I love mathematical riddles and if I can help with a case, even better.”

“Ha.” There was barely concealed triumph in Sherlock’s voice. “See? He loves riddles. Sit,” he commanded, clearing a chair for Chris.

John sighed. “Whatever. Tea, Chris?”

“Yes please. But if you point me I can make some myself. I really don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re hardly a bother. I could think of all sorts of bother but so far, you’re not among them.” He gave a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction but was not rewarded with a reaction. Chris grinned and sat down obediently.

John shook his head and made his way around the table, reached for three mugs and started the kettle. As he waited for the water to boil, he watched Sherlock and Chris closely, dark heads bent over the notebook, lost in their little world of math babble and incomprehensible equations. Neither of them looked up when he placed the tea mugs on the table but Chris at least managed a mumbled thanks.

When they joined John in the sitting room at long last, Sherlock’s face showed an odd mix of surprise and smugness.

“I was right about the wiring but I was wrong about the Tate. Turned out the equation points towards the University of Westminster, or rather, the Faculty of Science and Technology. I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself.” He cast a glance over Chris. “You sure you’re Lestrade’s?”

“Sherlock!” John said in a long-suffering voice but Chris only grinned.

“Last time I checked I looked pretty much like him. So I guess yeah, he’s my Dad.”

“Amazing.”

He reached for his phone and flung himself into his armchair. Still grinning, Chris sat down cross-legged on the floor where Emily was busy putting one of her favourite stack toys together. As soon as she noticed Chris, she dropped the yellow brick she had been holding and crawled towards him. She studied him intently out of her huge blue eyes and when she had judged Chris to be friendly, she stretched out her arms, clearly expecting to be taken up.

Chris looked at John. “May I?” he asked, knowing better than to pick an infant up without the parent’s approval.

“It’s not my decision to make,” John smiled, so Chris unfolded his legs and pulled them up, sat Emily on his knees and started rocking his legs sideways in smooth motions, all the while holding the little girl steady with his hands. Emily started crowing in delight and John shook his head.

“There’s your proof,” he said with a sideways glance to Sherlock. “Emily clearly likes the Lestrades.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and shrugged dismissively.

“And again, John, you weren’t listening. I didn’t say Lestrade wasn’t good with children. I was expressing my surprise at the fact that he should have fathered a son with such a well-functioning brain.”

“Hey now,” Chris protested, “my Dad isn’t stupid, alright?”

“Not overall stupid, no, but he does have the tendency to –”

“Sherlock!” John said sharply. “Enough!”

“What?” While Sherlock’s voice held a somewhat irritated tone, he was held in place by a piercing look and eventually lowered his gaze.

“So, Chris, made any plans for the rest of the week?” John pointedly turned away from his flatmate.

“Oh, this and that,” Chris said, still rocking Emily on his knees. “Do some shopping with Steph, meet up with a few mates from university, learn how to dance.”

“Learn how to dance? Whatever for?”

“There’s this thing at uni and I’d like to go but I can’t dance. I don’t want to appear like an idiot so I thought I’d try and learn the basics.”

“That’s why you’ve come all the way to London? Are there no dancing schools at home?”

“Well,” he flopped down on his back, holding Emily up above him, ‘flying’ her in circles, “there are, I guess, but Steph has asked Mycroft to teach us. It’s not why I came here but I thought, well, why not.”

“Mycroft will teach you how to dance?” John asked incredulously. “Mycroft? As in, Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yeah, him. Tall, posh, married to my Dad?” Chris sat up as Emily clearly had enough and sat her gently down on her blanket. “Why not? He’s a good bloke and Dad says he’s a sharp dancer.”

A choked sound made him look in Sherlock’s direction.

“What did I say?”

John’s mouth twitched. “I believe Sherlock has never heard the combination of ‘Mycroft’ and ‘good bloke’ in one sentence before.”

“The concept escapes me,” Sherlock confirmed, “but given the fact that Lestrade hasn’t seen fit to throttle him yet, there must be a side to him that I’m not aware of.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Then again, I’m fairly certain I don’t want to see it.”

“Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous,” Chris said rudely. “I mean, I can see the whole brother thing but try having a sister and then we talk. There are times I think Steph’s been adopted or maybe she’s been switched at birth, but when it comes down to it, she’s my baby sister and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve yet to hear Mycroft say something bad about you so you may want to think about being a little nicer to him every once in a while.”

John inhaled the tea he’d been drinking and started coughing violently. Sherlock’s face took on a mulish expression but after a while he, too, gave a lopsided grin.

“Spoken like a true Lestrade,” he grudgingly admitted. “For a second I thought it was your father sitting there. Alright,” he rose from his armchair, scrolled through his mobile and walked to where a small stereo system stood, “what’s this nonsense about you not knowing how to dance?”

Chris shrugged. “Never had to. The fine arts just aren’t for me.”

“You don’t need to be an artist to understand music. It’s a regular arrangement of phrase, accent and pulse repetition.” He placed the phone into the stereo system. “In addition, there’s a number of neurobiological studies showing that music and art stimulate the same parts of the brain as mathematics. So really it’s all about counting and precision and you can count, can’t you?”

“Interesting,” Chris hummed. “I never looked at it like that.”

When the first notes of a slow waltz were heard, Sherlock strode across the room to where Emily sat, swooped her up in his arms and danced around the room, careful not to step on the bright blanket she’d been playing on. Chris hastily brought it out of the danger zone and dropped it on the sofa.

“See?” Sherlock said to Emily. “Not that difficult at all. One-two-three one-two-three one-two-three.” He handed the laughing little girl to her father who settled her on his lap, his hands lingering on John’s for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, an odd little fact that did not escape Chris’ notice. While he possessed neither Sherlock’s nor Mycroft’s sharp observational skills and had not yet accumulated his father’s experience at reading people, he had a younger sister who – while being an overall easy-going person – could be touchy at times, and so Chris had learnt to pay attention to detail over the years.

Sherlock straightened. “Come here,” he commanded and Chris obediently stepped up to him. “Take my right hand with your left and put your right on my left arm. Like that, yes. Now listen to the beat of the music.”

“There’s no real beat,” Chris said after a while.

“Close your eyes. Listen closely. Pay attention to the rhythm. There’s a distinct pattern there. Concentrate.”

With the analytical hemisphere of his brain spurred on like that, it took Chris but a few heartbeats to detect the waltz’ three quarter time. Easy, really, once you knew what you were looking for, and he nodded eagerly.

“Got it.”

“Excellent. Now look down at my feet and mirror what I do.”

It turned out that unless you were after championship glory, dancing wasn’t all that difficult and it also turned out that Sherlock Holmes, with all of his brusque manners and intolerance, was a very patient teacher to those he deemed worthy of his time.

He taught Chris to dance not only the slow waltz but the Viennese waltz as well, along with the basics of foxtrot and quickstep. Chris’ movements were still a bit clumsy and he stepped on Sherlock’s toes more often than not but when he left 221B Baker Street to pick up his sister at her Savile Row temple, he did so in the best of spirits, informing her he couldn’t wait to take her dancing.

“Oh? What happened?”

“You know I went to see Sherlock, right? Well, guess what. He’s a good dancer, too, and he’s taught me the basics.”

“Really?” She linked arms with him. “I guess the brothers are more alike than they care to admit.”

“Guess they are,” Chris confirmed, thinking how Sherlock’s hand had brushed John’s and how John’s eyes had softened whenever their gazes had met. “So, where would the master seamstress like to sup?”

“Cutter,” Steph corrected him, “it’s cutter. I’d like to eat at _Roop’s_. Matt says it’s great.”

“Who’s Matt?”

“Oh, he’s the trouser cutter’s understudy.” Her tone was light but Chris noticed a faint blush.

“Matt, huh.” He smirked and Steph made an evasive sound.

“I have the address but I think your mobile SatNav is better than mine.”

“Sure. Let’s see where _Matt_ sends my sister.” He put extra emphasis on the name and his smirk deepened when Steph glared at him. “How about that. You tell me about Matt, and I tell you about something I saw at Sherlock’s.”

“Is it any good?”

“I’m not sure. But it’s interesting.”

“Let me hear.”

“Nope. Matt first.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. Address?”

******

“ _What_?” Greg said, loudly enough for Mycroft to lower his newspaper and peer at him over the rim of his reading glasses.

“Anything the matter?”

“No, I mean yes, uh, nothing bad, it’s just –” Greg continued staring at the screen of his phone, moving his lips as he read, “I mean, the _fuck_?”

“Greg?”

“This, uh –” Greg scratched his head and looked at Mycroft with a look of such comic disbelief that Mycroft dropped his newspaper carelessly on the floor and scooted across the sofa to snatch the phone from him. Settling himself between Greg’s legs with his back against Greg’s chest, he opened the screen.

“What on earth –”

Greg’s low chuckle vibrated against his back.

“Another experiment, maybe?”

“Not on John.” Mycroft removed his glasses, put them on the coffee table and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he squinted at the screen again.

_Kindly schedule your next pub visit while your daughter is still around to babysit Emily. Will join with John. Will bring violin. –SH_

“Do you have any idea what brought this on?”

Greg shrugged. “I haven’t spoken to him since Tuesday. He’s on a case and I was busy handing a few things over to Andy and get some stuff done at school, too.” He shifted into a more comfortable position. “Chris saw him on Wednesday, I think. We can ask him tomorrow morning if he noticed anything strange.”

“Without wanting to belittle your son’s observational abilities I doubt he’s familiar enough with Sherlock to have noticed anything unusual.”

“True. And it was his first visit to Baker Street, too. Then by all means, let’s schedule. Do you have anything planned that involves travelling in the near future?”

“I need to be in Paris on Sunday, then Barcelona on Tuesday. I won’t be able to come home in between but with any luck, I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“How about next Friday?”

“I believe that can be arranged.” Mycroft handed the phone back to Greg and fished for his own to block Friday evening and Saturday morning. “Let’s hope our overseas friends will keep to their side of the arrangement, at least for that one night.”

“Mhm.” Greg finished typing his reply and stretched to put his mobile on the table. Mycroft followed his example, then leaned back against Greg whose arms immediately went around him.

“Mycroft?”

“Mhm?”

“I was thinking.”

“Oh dear.”

“Quiet.”

“Listening.”

“Jeremy usually rings you when he’s on his way, right?”

“He does.”

“Chris said it’s a three-hour film.”

“Yes.”

“They left one and a half hour ago. Twenty minutes to get to the cinema, then queue up for tickets and popcorn, the usual announcements and previews. Three hours of film. Get out, go to the loo, drive home.”

“Still listening.”

“If I’m not entirely mistaken, this leaves us with about two and a half hours to kill.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“A game of chess springs to mind.”

“Chess?” Mycroft twisted so he could peer up at Greg’s face.

“Strip chess,” Greg said with a grin.

“Oh.” Mycroft pretended to ponder on this, then gave a theatrical sigh and came into a sitting position. “Very well. I will not endeavour to argue with a man so obviously doomed.”

“I will struggle heroically.”

“I shall enjoy watching you struggle.” He went to fetch the chessboard, and they set the pieces up together.

“First move’s yours.”

He watched Greg move one of his pawns. No surprise here. Greg was actually not a bad player and occassionally came up with unconventional tactics that surprised even Mycroft, but there was little doubt as to who would be shedding his boxers first.

Mycroft made his move.

******

The _Silver Fox_ was packed as usual, if not more. It was a Friday night and it had been raining since mid-afternoon, robbing everybody of any outdoor plans they had made. Paul and Thomas carefully snaked through the crowds, balancing a beverage-laden tray each. They were greeted with cheers and whistles, everybody reaching for his or her glass with the greed of people having barely survived a week in the desert.

“Will you be playing for us tonight, Mike?” Paul had to shout to make himself understood as the band had just started to play.

Mycroft settled for a non-committal answer. “The band’s just started,” he shouted back. “Let’s see how it goes.” If the choice had been his alone, he would have left the instant the first chords blared through the pub but Greg loved this mixture of punk and folk music, saying it reminded him of his young and carefree days, and watching him bounce on his feet with his dark eyes beaming took some of his personal discomfort away. Greg regularly put up with official functions although they bored him to the verge of tears; surely he could endure a few hours of jackhammering and caterwauling.

‘Think he’ll come?’ Greg mouthed, not bothering to try and shout over the music but putting Mycroft’s lip-reading abilities to good use instead. Mycroft half-shrugged. They had confirmed the date and approximate time to Sherlock as requested and Steph had happily agreed to babysit Emily, but who knew what his little brother was up to? Sherlock had a way of changing his mind in the blink of an eye, especially when it came to the siren calls of The Work.

The arrival of two newcomers took his mind off his brother for a moment and he smiled at Laura Thompson who approached their corner with Andy Rogers in tow. Greg had told him about the conversation he’d had with Laura and how deeply shocked he had been upon hearing about what she had been through. Mycroft had nodded and expressed his concern but had not revealed the fact that he knew Laura’s whole story for it was not his to tell, and it now made him happy to see her return his smile, looking genuinely relaxed and perfectly at ease in Andy’s company.

“Laura!” Greg’s eyes lit up and he greeted her with a peck on the cheek, something she endured with surprising calm, even kissed him in return, and Mycroft took notice without even the slightest stab of jealousy. “Glad you could make it!”

“I have yet to hear Mycroft play,” she shouted. “Besides, I have fifteen reports to review tomorrow and I could do with some liquid enforcement.”

“Let me take care of that,” Mycroft offered, shouting as well. “What are you having?”

“I’ll have a half pint of Weizen, thanks.”

“Andy?”

“A pint of Porter, thanks mate.”

Mycroft nodded and made his way towards the bar, got in line and patiently waited for his turn. By the time he made it back, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock, standing ramrod straight next to John. His facial expression was carefully neutral but he was clutching his violin case to his chest with the desperation of a man about to be sent on a kamikaze mission. John was perching on a stool with his injured leg placed on the rungs of another stool and was nursing a pint of lager, no doubt Greg’s. John looked every bit as happy and relaxed as Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft said with a mildly mocking undertone. “So good of you to join us.” He placed the beer glasses he had been carrying before Laura and Andy. “There you are. Hello, John.”

“Mycroft,” John tilted his head. Although the ice between him and Mycroft was beginning to thaw, it was a slow process and they weren’t on easy terms quite yet.

“You’ve given your beer up for John?” Mycroft turned to Greg who shrugged one shoulder.

“Well, he looked like he needed it and I hadn’t touched it yet. I stole yours.” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Punish me as you see fit.”

“Your impudence has been noted,” Mycroft said haughtily. “I will make you pay for this.”

“Oh dear,” Andy laughed, “back into uniform, Lestrade.”

“You know, Andy,” an appraising gaze travelled along Greg’s body, “that is not a bad idea at all.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

Mycroft pulled his lower lip between his teeth and watched with satisfaction as the heat in Greg’s eyes intensified. It had taken him years to reach this level of ease and flirtatious bantering at the pub was the closest thing to public displays of affection Greg and himself indulged themselves in. At some point in their relationship he had come to realise and acknowledge the fact that outside his everyday political circles, very few people actually paid attention to the small details and those around him who did notice – Andy, Laura, even John – already hovered close to the carefully guarded border that shielded his inner circle from the outside world. As for his brother… his eyes met Sherlock’s and the mixture of disgust and curiosity warring on his brother’s face made him stifle a laugh.

“Sherlock, I need to get me another beer. Want me to get you anything?” Greg offered. Sherlock hesitated, then graciously agreed to having whatever Greg was getting for himself. Mycroft watched Greg weave his way through the crowd, admiring the snug fit of Greg’s jeans and nursing the memory of how that firm backside had rubbed against the front of his Chinos while they were getting ready to leave for the pub.

“For heaven’s sakes, Mycroft, stop leering.” Sherlock had walked around the table to stand next to his brother. “It’s giving me headaches.”

“Then delete what you’re seeing,” Mycroft said, not interested in his brother’s unease. “You delete all kinds of information from your mind palace. Why hang on to this one?”

“I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Come now, Sherlock, Greg and I have been together for almost four years. That’s hardly news to you.”

“It isn’t. But acknowledging the fact and actually see you stare at his behind are two different things altogether. How am I supposed to work with him if I keep thinking about the two of you –” he stopped himself just in time and made a face.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mycroft said, caught between irritation and amusement. “May I suggest you direct your bottled up energies in a direction that’s worthy of your attention?”

Sherlock gave him a blank stare and Mycroft stared right back. For all that Sherlock possessed a lightning quick intellect, he tended to be surprisingly slow at times, but as realisation dawned, treacherous heat crept up his neck.

“I’m not sure it’s something I should pursue,” he said with unexpected openness, taking full advantage of the facts that the pub’s noise was as good as an invisibility cloak and the knowledge that Mycroft would understand without him shouting. Mycroft searched his face and was pleasantly surprised at what he found.

“Only one way to find out, Sherlock,” he said.

“What if it’s not welcome?”

“Then you will take it from there.”

“What if it is?”

“You’ll take it from there,” Mycroft repeated.

“Is it worth the risk?”

“Oh believe me, it is. It’s a leap of faith and it takes a lot of work, but it is so very worth it.”

Sherlock worried his lower lip, then nodded to himself as if he had reached a conclusion. Jerking his chin in the direction of the stage he asked, “When are we supposed to, uh –”

“– entertain the masses?” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “When I play, it’s usually during the breaks, never after the band has finished. It’s advisable to notify the barman to make sure nobody else snatches the stage away and given the fact that you’ve come equipped I think I might do that. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“Best get it over and done with,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “Announce us, if you please.”

“Very well.”

Again, he steered towards the bar and signalled for the barman’s attention. Knowing that ‘Mike’s’ play tended to keep the crowd entertained and in a generous mood, the young man nodded eagerly and jotted Mycroft’s name down.

“Who’s that you’re gonna play with?” he shouted.

“My brother,” Mycroft shouted back.

“What’s his name?”

Mycroft hesitated, then said with a grin, “Billy.”

“Alright. Mike and Billy.”

“Exactly.”

The barman raised his hand, clearly expecting a high five. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and obliged. Better than bumping knuckles.

“Later, mate.”

“Later.”

By the time Mycroft thought his hearing had suffered irreversible damage, the band’s singer announced a short break. The musicians left the stage and the barman jumped on.

“The boys of _Sonic Retold_ are going to take a well-deserved breather but don’t you worry, ladies and gentlemen, we will keep the music playing. Most of you know Mike, the man with the magic hands.” He applauded and pointed in Mycroft’s direction. “What you don’t know is – our very own Mike has a brother who, as I understand it, plays the fiddle.” He checked his notes. “So tonight, my lovelies, I give you… Mike aaaaaand Billiiiiiieeeeee!” He made it sound like a ring announcer and the crowd started cheering.

Sherlock’s look of unfiltered outrage made Mycroft laugh out loud. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw John’s heroic efforts to stifle his laughter and Greg had tactfully turned away, his shaking shoulders giving him away nevertheless.

“Let’s go, Billy,” Mycroft said, grinning.

“That’s funny to you?” Sherlock hissed on the way to the stage.

“Countenance, brother dear. I’m Mike Croft around here which is no less painful.”

Sherlock snorted. “Mike Croft?”

“People hear but they do not listen. Think of it as a stage name.”

“Billy.”

“And Mike.”

They climbed on stage, and Mycroft made a neat little bow. It had become one of his trademarks and as a lot of the people present tonight had already heard him play, he was greeted with a friendly applause, interspersed with cheers and whistles. Sherlock stood with his back to the audience, tuning his violin.

“What do you want to play?”

“Let’s start with the duelling banjos to get them warmed up.”

And warm their audience up they did. Music did what nothing else could – it tore down the wall the brothers had erected between them. Well, as far as Mycroft’s side went, it had never been impenetrable to begin with and as his personal life continued to grow happier, he didn't care much about blocking his brother out any longer but he didn’t intend to make the first move, either. It was Sherlock who still labelled him his arch-enemy, not the other way round.

For now, they communicated in a language they both mastered, and when their mad duel ended and Sherlock pulled his bow across the strings one last time, the crowd went wild. Sherlock looked up, startled, and sought Mycroft’s eyes, appearing every bit as overwhelmed as Mycroft had felt that night he had played the battered piano for the first time. It was one thing to play an instrument for one’s own pleasure, for an appreciative friend or even a selected audience, and quite another to play for a large group whose members might not be versed in the intricacies of music, classical or otherwise, but who recognised and welcomed high quality performances nevertheless, and as more heartfelt applause washed over them, Sherlock visibly relaxed.

They played an up-tempo classical piece after that, followed by two traditionals, and finally Mycroft launched into the piece he had come to love most of all because it reminded him of Greg. He knew Greg loved it, too, if only for the fact that Greg loved watching Mycroft’s long fingers dance across the keys with dizzying speed and unerring precision. Sherlock recognised the ‘Coultergeist’ and improvised around the bouncing notes, not sticking to the original’s string-plucking.

Their eyes met and locked towards the final notes and there was such unguarded joy in Sherlock’s iridescent eyes that Mycroft sat rooted to the spot after they had finished, fearing that if he moved, the moment of peace would be destroyed. When he did get up, however, Sherlock was still smiling, was even holding a hand out to him.

“Be a good boy, Mikey, and make a bow.”

Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand and they bowed together, basking in their audience’s appreciation and a rare display of brotherly unity. Sherlock’s attention riveted on a point across the room, even as they made another bow together, and Mycroft knew without checking what that point was.

“That was bloody fantastic,” John said when they returned to the table and Sherlock ducked his head in an unexpectedly shy gesture. “Amazing. I had no idea.”

“John, you’ve heard me play countless times before,” Sherlock protested but John waved it away.

“Not like this I haven’t.”

Thomas pointed at a pile of business cards and folded pieces of paper.

“The usual,” he laughed. “Man, you had the crowd go apeshit. You should come here more often.”

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes not leaving John’s face. “Who knows.”

“I’m going to snog your socks off as soon as I get the chance,” Greg said against Mycroft’s ear, his lips brushing lightly across his skin. Mycroft tried one of his haughty stares but failed, and Greg’s low chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. “And I will make you squirm and beg and it will be such fun because I know you’ll try and not make a sound so as not to put Steph into an awkward situation.”

“Oh Christ, get a room, you two,” Andy shouted across the table and laughed when Greg flipped him off.

“I’m getting some tonight, Rogers. You have a problem with that?”

Andy raised his hands in mock defeat. “No need to get possessive, Lestrade. We all know the hot ginger is yours.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Ginger,” he repeated. “I am not a ginger.”

“You have freckles. Therefore you are a ginger.”

“Auburn,” Sherlock supplied with a grin. “I believe my brother prefers the word auburn.”

“Whatever, Billy,” Mycroft said. “Fact is I’m getting laid tonight. Mission accomplished.” He arched an eyebrow, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Now, whose round is it?”


	10. Chapter 10

They woke up the next morning to the sound of a small child shrieking at the top of its lungs. Greg went from peaceful slumber to full alertness within seconds.

“The hell?”

He cocked his head and listened. It was a sound of utter outrage, not that of pain or fear. He slumped back and covered his face with hands. Next to him, Mycroft pulled the sheet above his head and groaned.

“I wonder what’s going on.”

“Don’t care. Your daughter, your idea,” came the muffled response. “Go and make it stop.”

Greg huffed and lightly punched the Mycroft-shaped lump lying next to him.

“What makes you think I can stop it?”

“You’re a father. And a policeman. Feed her porridge. Arrest her and put her into a cell.”

“Right.”

He swung his legs out of the bed, sat up, yawned and scratched his head. He fished for his boxers, put them on and grabbed his faded t-shirt from the stool. With one amused glance to his disgruntled husband he opened the bedroom door and stepped outside.

“Steph?” he called across the hall. “Need help?”

The door to the guest bathroom was flung open and Steph appeared, looking both irritated and helpless.

“I am so sorry, Dad, did we wake you?”

“You could say that, yeah. What’s the matter?”

“I have no idea.” She shrugged and checked over her shoulder. “I changed her nappy and wanted to put her new dress on and all of a sudden she started howling like this. She’s never done that before.”

Greg peered into the bathroom where Emily lay on the makeshift changing table, her little fists clenched and her face red with outrage, still shrieking.

“Maybe she doesn’t like the dress?” he suggested. “Or maybe you left a pin or a scratching thread somewhere on the inside?”

“Dad, please. We tried it on yesterday and she was perfectly fine. She looks so cute in it and I thought John and Sherlock might like to see her in it.”

They approached her and Greg carefully tapped a finger to one of the small fists.

“Hey now, little lady,” he softly said, “that’s no way to behave on this fine Saturday morning.”

She continued crying but fixed her eyes on his face. He picked her up.

“Shhh,” he said in a gentle voice. “Why are you crying, little Emily?” With his free hand, he reached for her DNA toy and handed it to her. Just like that, the howling stopped.

“Lock,” she said happily and pressed the bright thing to her chest. “Lock.”

Greg blinked. “What was that?”

“Lock,” Emily repeated and Steph began to giggle.

“Sherlock,” she said. “She means to say Sherlock.”

“What?” Greg chuckled. “Uncle ‘lock, eh? You know,” he turned to his daughter, “I had no idea she could speak. Most kids start a lot earlier, if I remember correctly, and I’ve never heard her say a word before.”

“Oh, she does speak, but mostly when she’s by herself.” Steph came closer and stroked Emily’s hair. “Did your Uncle Sherlock give this to you? And I took it away? No wonder you were angry. I’m sorry.”

“Lock,” Emily confirmed. “Daddy.”

“Oh good,” smiled Greg, “I was worried ‘lock was the only word you know. Poor John would be so disappointed.” He rocked her gently. “Daddy and Uncle ‘lock will pick you up in a few hours, so why don’t you let Steph change you into your pretty dress?” He handed her over to his daughter. “Just don’t take that thing away from her again,” he said, grinning. “I’m afraid she’s taking on Sherlock’s habits. He can be so grumpy if you pry him away from his experiments.”

“She’ll grow up to be quite an extraordinary lady, won’t you, my little angel?” Steph made a funny face and laughed when Emily poked at her nose. “Let’s go get you ready.”

 

When John and Sherlock came to pick Emily up at the agreed time, they barged in on an idyllic little scene with Greg and Steph partaking on a hearty breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs, mushrooms and bacon, and Mycroft nibbling on a toast covered with a thin layer of jam.

“Now isn’t this lovely,” Sherlock said mockingly upon stepping into the room but the remark lacked its usual venom. Mycroft looked up from his newspaper, let his gaze travel over his brother’s tall frame, and resumed reading the article, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Temper, temper.”

“Why are you grinning? I don’t see anything funny.”

“Ah but I do.” Mycroft stood, folded the newspaper and nodded to John. “Care to sit? I’ll make some more tea, if you like.”

“Thanks, Mycroft.” John sank down on the offered chair. “Bloody leg still bothers me.” He reached across the table and stroked a finger across Emily’s cheek. “Hello there, my little sweetling. You’re looking very lovely in that fine dress. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“You haven’t,” Steph said, a little shyly. “I made it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You made it? Wow.” John took a closer look. “I don’t know an awful lot about little girls’ dresses but this is really pretty.”

“Thank you. I was a little afraid you’d mind.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, unwanted presents and all.”

“Nonsense,” John firmly said. “If you want to keep making dresses for Emily, go ahead. I bet you know a lot more about what makes her look pretty than I do.”

Mycroft brushed past his brother who was still standing, hovering near John. “Care to help me with the tea?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Then kindly help me choose a blend that would be to John’s liking.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but the look in Mycroft’s eyes made him close it again.

When they were out of earshot, Mycroft quietly observed, “You look happy, Sherlock. So does John. I guess it’s safe to assume you’ve considered what I told you last night?”

He watched with interest as Sherlock’s cheekbones took on a soft shade of pink and inclined his head by the merest of fractions, indicating his approval. Sherlock’s mouth lifted at the corners, ever so slightly, and the brothers exchanged a look. No words were needed.

Mycroft opened the cupboards.

“So, which tea would John prefer?” He peered at his selection. “Assam? Darjeeling? Sun Moon Lake? Keemun? How about Jasmine tea? Or would Gunpowder tea be better, given the fact that Dr Watson is an excellent shot?”

“Whatever,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He’ll drink dishwater if it smells nice, and he dumps enough milk into his cup to disguise all hints at taste.” He opened another door. “Here we go. PG Tips. Perfect.”

A sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips. “Very well. PG Tips it is. I’ve tried hard to wean Greg off the brew but left to his own devices, that’s what he’ll choose. He claims it’s easier to make.”

“Not everybody believes in the beauty of a full tea ceremony.”

“Indeed.”

They exchanged another look, then Mycroft switched the kettle on while Sherlock reached for a mug.

“John’s leg seems to be making progress,” Mycroft remarked in a conversational tone. “What’s the prognosis?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He’s healing well and he takes his exercises very seriously. He’s itching to go back to work but I think his leg isn’t up to it. Part-time, maybe. He has a meeting with the Board next week to discuss his options.”

“Good. I can’t see John Watson being a stay-at-home Dad for very much longer.”

Sherlock huffed. “Neither can I. He says I’m a nightmare when I’m bored but he has no idea what he is like. Challenging, to say the least.”

“Quite the angry little man, I suppose.”

“Don’t ever say that when he’s around. Don’t even think it in his presence. He will hurt you.”

“I quiver with fear.”

“You should.”

They waited for the water to boil, and when the kettle clicked, Sherlock reached for it. Mycroft stopped his hand.

“Never with boiling water,” he said warningly. “Must I always remind you?”

“Then allow me to join the merry round while you wait for the water to reach its optimum temperature.”

With an exaggerated bow, Sherlock went back to the living room and Mycroft prepared a small tea tray for John, letting his thoughts wander. Wasn’t it ironic how both he and his brother, who both prided themselves of their superior intellects, had chosen such seemingly ordinary men to be their partners? Neither John Watson nor Greg Lestrade were Nobel prize candidates although neither of them was intellectually inferior by any standard other than the Holmes’s.

He chuckled, remembering a long ago conversation with Sherlock where he had compared others – i.e. non-Holmeses – to goldfish. Well, it seemed both he and Sherlock had found themselves a goldfish each, and as for his particular fish, there was nobody he’d rather have around for the rest of his life. While Greg was not particularly interested in intellectual mindgames and had no taste for political power play, he possessed sharp observational skills and an excellent understanding of the complex interaction of mind and emotion, and Mycroft had long ago ceased to feel himself above seeking Greg’s advice on matters of the human psyche.

What would Greg say if he found out Mycroft had turned down a promotion that would have added more weight and influence, but more duties as well, carving off another huge chunk of his time? When presented with the option only a few days ago, he had asked for a moment to consider, ignoring the raised eyebrow and the perplex stare, and had taken a long walk. When he had returned, his expensive shoes in a sad state thanks to the rain, he had respectfully declined.

He hadn’t told Greg yet, keeping it to himself a little while longer, liking the taste of how good it felt to have his personal life and his work in perfect balance. For the first time in his adult life, to be precise. It had never before occurred to him to place anything above work, too sweet was the taste of power and too enthralling the games he had mastered to perfection. And then, one day, he had taken notice of a handsome runner going through his stretching routine by the Peter Pan statue, and the scale had tipped.

“I wonder what dark secrets lurk in the steam of this wicked kettle.” Mycroft started when Greg’s arms slid around his waist, pulling him close. He had not even heard him come into the kitchen, and that alone spoke volumes of how thoroughly he had learnt to let his guard down. “Tell me, Oh Sinister One, what do you see?” Greg’s voice was a seductive whisper against his skin, his breath tickling the side of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft’s body responded immediately.

“I see potential embarrassment in front of our guests if you don’t step away from me right this instant.”

Greg’s arms loosened, allowing him to turn around and face him. He cast a glance over Greg’s shoulder and cocked his head to listen. Voices could be heard from the living room and nobody was in sight, so he dared steal a kiss. Greg’s lips were much softer than they looked, a fact that never ceased to delight him, and his tongue tasted of coffee and breakfast. Mycroft pressed his nose against Greg’s neck and inhaled.

“You gorgeous, incorrigible creature, you,” he whispered. “Will you ever stop being a walking temptation?”

“Huh?” Greg tilted his head to the side, letting Mycroft nibble some more. “Not if it stops you rubbing yourself against me like this. What was that about potential embarrassment?”

Mycroft tore himself away with some difficulty.

“Good thing we’ve both chosen to wear jeans. Having one’s responsive body parts confined to a certain degree does offer a feeling of security.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“Trust you to make it sound less uncomfortable than it is.” Greg’s right eyebrow quirked up. “Don’t look so alarmed, Myc. My body is responsive enough but not as energetic as it used to be.”

Mycroft stifled a laugh. “Oh, will you drop the old man act, you horrid person.”

“Wasn’t that gorgeous only a moment ago?”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He poured the water. “Help me with this, will you?”

“What, tray too heavy?”

“I might spill the tea, my hands being so very shaky from your presence.”

“Silly git,” Greg said fondly, picked the small tray up and led the way.

 

When Sherlock, John and Emily had left, Greg slumped in his chair.

“Peace and quiet,” he said happily. “What’s next?” He looked at Steph. “Made any plans for the weekend, chit?”

“I was hoping to meet a friend around eleven. She says there’s this mercer on Portobello Road who has the most amazing selection of cloth, but she couldn’t say for sure she can make it.”

“Why not? And who is she? Do I know her?” Greg asked.

“In fact, you do. And she is still waiting to her from her boss whether or not she can take the Saturday off.”

“What boss keeps his employees on their toes on a Saturday?”

Steph cleared her throat and looked at Mycroft from underneath her long lashes. “Bosses who don’t keep regular office hours because they don’t have a nine-to-five job either.”

“Would you be referring to Anthea, by any chance?” said Mycroft incredulously. When Steph nodded, he hummed. “I had no idea she liked to graze flea markets.”

“But she does. And did you know she’s really good with needle and thread, too? I’ve seen some of the dresses she’s made for herself and they’re not bad at all. And her quilts? Amazing.”

Mycroft realised he was staring and quickly brought his features back under control. “How do you know all that? And when did you see the dresses she’s made?”

“We talk,” Steph winked at him and grinned. “Don’t worry, Mycroft, we do not talk about you. Have some faith in your people.”

“I do have faith in my people. It’s just that I had no idea about Anthea’s creative endeavours.”

“Don’t feel bad. You have too much on your mind to know everything about everybody.”

“It’s my job to know everything about everybody,” Mycroft stiffly said.

“You’ve trained her well then,” Greg pointed out. “She’s managed to keep a secret from you, and that’s saying something.”

“It’s saying I’ve developed an alarming tendency for inattentiveness, and I must admit it doesn’t make me happy.”

“Come on, Mycroft. I think it’s saying that you’ve learnt to relax around your most trusted ones. Besides, I bet Dad doesn’t know that Sally Donovan speaks Klingon.”

“That I do know. Sorry, Steph. I caught her doing pronunciation exercises once and it cracked me up. She made me swear a holy oath not to tell anyone.”

“ _Not yap wa' Hol_ ,” Mycroft said, and grinned when Greg and Steph stared at him. “I shall enjoy my next encounter with Sergeant Donovan.”

“You speak Klingon?”

“I certainly do.”

“Speaking of not knowing your nearest and dearest. I didn’t even know you’re a trekkie.”

“I am not. I used to spend hours on stakeout duty with someone who was, and we picked up Klingon to pass the time.”

“So what did you just say?”

“ _Not yap wa' Hol_ ,” Mycroft repeated. “One language is never enough.”

“It isn’t in your case. You happen to speak Elvish, too?”

“I do. And the language of Mordor, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Greg snorted. “And here I am, speaking English and some French.”

“And Holmes,” Steph added. “John says nobody speaks Holmes as well as you do, not even he.”

“And he’s lived with a Holmes long before I did. Good man, John is. I feel better already.” He nudged Mycroft. “So will you let Anthea off the leash so she can go shopping with my daughter?”

“Certainly.” Mycroft fished for his mobile and speed-dialled a number. The call was connected almost immediately. “Good morning, Anthea,” he said politely. “I’ve been given to understand in no uncertain terms that I am quite the horrible boss for letting you stand on attention on this lovely Saturday, and that you have made private plans behind my back.” He listened and the corners of his mouth started twitching. “Of course it is alright. I’m sorry for giving the impression I would begrudge you a private life. I don’t expect to hear back from you before Monday. – Nonsense. – Yes, I will be enjoying a whole weekend off as well. – Of course I can be reached at all times, please do tell the team to call me if anything comes up. – Yes, thank you. See you on Monday.”

He ended the call and nodded to Steph. “All yours. Have fun.” He raised a finger when Steph opened her mouth. “I will not wear a striped waistcoat, no matter how exquisite the fabric and no matter what pattern Mr O’Reilly pulls out of his collection.”

Steph giggled. “Nothing floral either?”

“Nothing floral,” Mycroft said in a firm voice.

“How about you, Dad?”

“I won’t wear anything that doesn’t meet with Mycroft’s approval.”

“You won’t?” Steph and Mycroft said at the same time, and Greg grinned mischievously.

“You speak Elvish. I will not disobey anybody who speaks Elvish.”

“I shall keep it in mind.”

“Come on, say something.”

Oh the Lestrade puppy eyes. Mycroft touched his knuckles to Greg’s cheeks and softly said, “ _Gerich veleth nín_.”

Greg swallowed. “I think I understood that.”

Next to him, his daughter sighed.

“You are so cute together.” She laughed when both men gave her horrified looks.

“Cute,” echoed Mycroft. “I will make certain to join the next basic training course. Not knowing about my most trusted colleague’s hobbies. Cute.” A thought occurred and he turned to face Steph. “How did you get involved with Anthea, if I may ask?”

“What do you mean, get involved?”

“Why would she share her hobbies with you? She’s a very private person.”

“Yeah, but she’s also a girl. Well, grown woman, actually, but she loves to make things. She loves beautiful fabrics, and she has the most wonderful stash of fat quarters.”

“Fat quarters?” Mycroft looked as if he wanted to ask more but Greg held up a hand in warning.

“Don’t do it, Mycroft, don’t go there. You do not want to encourage my daughter to launch into a lecture about fabrics and quarters and needlework and stitches. Trust me. Don’t do it.”

“Dad!” Despite the reproachful tone, Steph’s eyes were brimming with laughter.

“Shush, daughter. You know I love you to bits and I am very proud of you and I will always have your back but you and I know what I mean. So, how come you’re such good friends with the fabulous Anthea?”

“It all started when I first met her, you know, when you and Mycroft had just got together and Chris and I spent a week during our summer holidays. We went shopping with Anthea, remember?”

“You did. I was with you.”

“You were, and you were bored stiff. Don’t deny it, Dad, you were.”

“I was,” Greg admitted.

“I told her about my food blog and my fashion blog, and she subscribed to my fashion blog. I think she was just being nice, but then one night we started chatting and it turned out that we have a common interest. And we’ve been in touch ever since.”

“She was chatting? On a social network?” Mycroft looked alarmed and Steph shook her head.

“She said she couldn’t do that when I asked her to befriend me on Facebook, but she set up a secure channel for us. And before you even ask, anything work-related is off limits, and so are you and Dad. It’s all about the craft, nothing else. No worries.”

Mycroft slumped back in his chair. “No worries. Setting up a secure channel to discuss fat quarters and ribbons with my husband’s teenage daughter. What is the world coming to?”

“Seems M and Moneypenny are real live people after all, eh.” Greg patted Mycroft’s arm. “For some reason, this makes me feel a lot safer. I would always bet on a human being and not on an android.”

“Don’t be absurd, Greg. There are no androids in my employ.”

“Says you.”

“Says I. Now that I have officially taken the weekend off as well, what do we do?”

“Oh, I have an idea or two.” Greg inched a little closer. “My daughter will be gone soon which means we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. How good is your dirty Elvish?”

Mycroft felt his ears grow hot and Steph snorted.

“Stop it, Dad. Daughter in the room, remember? I don’t want to know these things, please. You may kiss while I’m changing into my trophy hunting gear, but you will wait until I’m gone.”

“Yes dear,” Greg said meekly, eyes twinkling. “Thank you for putting me back in my place.”

“You’re welcome.”

She dashed off into her room and Greg followed her with his eyes.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she? I am so proud of her.”

“She has grown up to be quite a remarkable young woman. Congratulations on your children, Greg. You and your ex-wife have done an outstanding job.”

Greg leaned over to him and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Thank you. I love you.”

“And I love you. That’s what I said in Elvish. You have my love.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Mycroft took a deep breath. It was time after all. He would tell Greg.

“You know what I would like to do?”

“Mhm?”

“I would like to go for a run.”

“What? Outside?”

“Why, yes. Is there a problem?”

“You prefer to run indoors, on your treadmill.”

“I have been on runs through Kensington Gardens with you.”

“Maybe six or seven times in the last two years.”

“Let’s make it an eighth time then. Let me ring up Susan so she can send a security detail over.”

“Only one watchdog?”

“Ah, but I will be running with police protection,” Mycroft pointed out and Greg laughed.

“Yes you will be. I will be guarding your body with my life.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Mycroft said, suddenly serious. “If I lose you, my heart will stop.”

“Not today, Mycroft.” Greg reached for Mycroft’s hands to kiss the knuckles. “Today is a lovely day, and there will be no talk of hearts stopping. Only of hearts beating faster. Yeah?”

“Got it.” He worried his lower lip. “But there is something I need to tell you.”

“Oh no. You’re pregnant.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You have met someone younger and more handsome.”

“Really, Gregory, you’re being ridiculous.”

“You’ve taken up knitting.”

“Shut up.”

“I knew it.”

 

After Steph had left to meet Anthea, Timothy dropped Mycroft and Greg off at Kensington Gardens. Greg took Mycroft through a thorough stretching routine, trying hard to keep his hands to himself but succeeding only partially, and when he felt they had sufficiently warmed up, they started running at a leisurely pace, in in perfect rhythm with each other.

Mycroft found running outside was agreeing with him and wondered why he didn’t join Greg more often. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t developed a habit of working out regularly over the last few years but he very rarely ventured outdoors. Maybe that, too, needed re-thinking.

They stopped by the statue of Peter Pan and smiled at each other, remembering the day they had first noticed each other.

“So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” Greg patted a bronze rabbit at the foot of the statue and turned to Mycroft, an expectant look in his eyes.

“Let’s sit down on one of the benches.”

“Myc, you’re making me nervous. What is it?”

They found a bench that had just been vacated and sat down, Greg slouching comfortably, Mycroft sitting ramrod straight and on the very edge of the wooden bench.

“Greg, I made an important decision about my work. It’s time for a change.”

“Mhm. Go on.”

“I was offered a promotion. I was offered the post of –” he interrupted himself. “It doesn’t signify. It was a post I’ve had my eyes on for years, more responsibilities, more influence, more power.”

“That sounds… fantastic, I suppose.” Greg didn’t sound convinced, and Mycroft smiled.

“It is. It would also include more working hours, more travelling, more security.”

“Is that even possible?”

“It is. Believe me, it is.”

“And? When do you start?”

“I turned it down.”

“Come again?”

Mycroft gave a weak chuckle and placed a finger under Greg’s chin.

“Don’t gape, Greg. It doesn’t become you.”

“But – why? I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you take the job if you’ve wanted it for so long?”

“Because it would mean even more time away from you,” Mycroft simply said. “I’m sorry for blurting it out like that. I had intended to let one or two weeks pass and see if it still felt right. There is still time to rectify my decision. It would raise eyebrows and start in-depth negotiations and uncomfortable interviews, obviously, for one doesn’t just change one’s mind on that level, but so far, no new favourite has emerged. Which doesn’t surprise me,” he added, a little arrogantly. “There are not too many options.”

“You’re so sexy when you’re being all modest.”

“I’m glad you approve. Anyway, I have also decided to personally train two promising candidates from my current team so I can delegate some of the less complex tasks until they are ready to step in.”

“Pinch me.”

“What?”

“Pinch me. I’m having trouble following you. Are you telling me you’ve outlined a retirement plan?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Sounds like it.”

“I have no intention to retire just yet. Let’s just say I’ve reached a point where I must make a decision. There’s no doubt I’m the person best suited for this position –” he grinned when Greg’s mobile eyebrow quirked up, “– but there’s also you to consider.”

“I won’t be in your way. You know I have your back.”

“I know you do,” Mycroft gave Greg’s hand a squeeze. “And that’s precisely why I have declined. We have built something, you and I, and I want to be around on a somewhat regular basis to be able to enjoy it. It’s taken me a while to admit it to myself, but that’s it in a nutshell.”

“Wow.”

“That’s it? Wow?”

“How do you say, you’re amazing, sexy, adorable, unpredictable, and I love you so much I’m starting to hurt? In Elvish?”

“ _Sana amin a' rath_ ,” Mycroft replied without thinking, and Greg blinked.

“That’s, uh, short. What exactly does it mean?”

“Take me to bed.”

“Oh! I had no idea Elves would be that direct.”

“They wouldn’t be. But I’m wasting too much time each day speaking between the lines and I don’t want to waste time when it comes to you. Your daughter will be gone for quite a while. Let’s make the most of it.”

“I won’t disagree. Besides, you owe me one.”

“I do?”

“You fell asleep after you came last night.”

“True. I’m not apologising.”

“I didn’t ask you to apologise. Just make it up to me.”

“You have my word.”

They rose.

“Should we do some more stretching?”

Greg shook his head. “No. Watching you bend over will get me in a lot of trouble. Have your heavy alert Timothy. We’re on our way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Klingon and Elvish phrases were taken from these sites:
> 
> “Not yap wa' Hol” - http://thechibiklingon.deviantart.com/art/Klingon-Translator-Klingon-Phrases-353064622  
> "Sana amin a' rath" - http://lingojam.com/TheTelQuessirOnlineTranslator, based on Dungeons & Dragons  
> “Gerich veleth nín” - http://www.councilofelrond.com/content/phrases/
> 
> My most humble thanks!


	11. Chapter 11

Greg looked unhappily at John whose struggle for calm was obvious.

“So it ends just like that, huh.” John’s voice was flat.

“I’m afraid so.”

“A slap on the wrist for the men who murdered my wife.”

“I’m not sure imprisonment in Denmark can be considered a slap on the wrist.” It didn’t sound very convincing, not even to Greg himself, and John let out a tired huff.

“If they’re convicted of attempted murder at all.”

“There’s the CCTV footage –” Greg tried but was cut off mid-sentence.

“And that is showing exactly what? A van hitting a car? You can barely see the license plates, let alone the driver’s face. Best we can do is try for negligent homicide and that’s barely a couple of years.”

“How do you know that?”

“I googled it.” John closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the resignation in them made Greg cringe inside. “I’m not going to insult you by asking whether Mycroft…” He broke off when he saw Greg’s expression. “Of course not. Sherlock said as much. It’s just that I –” His fists clenched and unclenched by his side. “Forget it. I can’t do anything about it and I will not try to do anything about it. I have Emily to think about now.” He drew a deep breath and straightened. “Thanks, Greg.”

“For what? For not being helpful?”

“For not tiptoeing around. For telling me the truth, although the truth sucks more than anything.”

“God, John, you have no idea how sorry I am about all that. We’ve come up with nothing but the hit and run and much as I hate it –” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“It’s hardly your fault. Tell Mycroft I’m grateful for all he’s done.”

“I will. And you’re more than welcome.”

John reached for his crutch and with a final nod in Greg’s direction, he limped outside. Greg followed him with his eyes until he vanished out of sight, then he dropped a ten pound note on the small corner table and rose. He slipped his coat on and made his way towards the exit, hoping for a cab. At this time of day, he just might make it to his briefing in time. In theory. If only he possessed Sherlock’s superpower of stopping a cab whenever he needed one, or if one of Mycroft’s sleek black limousines stood waiting for him. His reality was quite another one, however, and with a frustrated groan he headed towards the next Underground station.

 

Andy gave his watch a pointed stare when Greg finally squeezed into the small meeting room.

“Glad you could make it, Chief Inspector.”

“Always a pleasure, Inspector.”

“Would you like me to bring you up to speed before we continue?”

“On the Stepney case? Nah, I downloaded the essential files to my mobile and read them on the Tube.”

“Downloaded the files to your mobile, eh. Hear hear! About time you arrived in the twenty-first century.”

“It pleases me greatly that it is still within my power to surprise you,” Greg said in his haughtiest voice, one mobile eyebrow quirking up. “Please do continue, Inspector, I don’t wish to waste any more of your valuable time.”

He leaned back and made a show of pulling his old notepad out of his inside pocket, grinning when Andy glared at him. Needling Andy was such fun, although he was careful not to take it too far before the team – Andy was his designated successor after all, and so far he’d been doing a good job.

The case at hand had taken a different turn from what they had expected. Two weeks ago, three young men had been found shot near Stepney Green Park and thus far, they had assumed it had been a gang-related crime. When another man had been shot the previous week, however, Andy had started to look more closely at the victims’ individual backgrounds.

“It’s turned out all three of them were involved in the 2011 bank heist near Limehouse station,” Andy explained, pointing at the victims’ photos, “and our first impulse was to look into the possibility of somebody on a revenge trip.”

“Someone who’s lost somebody during the heist?” Constable Munro, the team’s latest addition, blushed when the stocky sergeant next to him sniggered, but Andy nodded encouragingly.

“Correct. It seemed logical at the time but then this popped up.”

He opened a file on his computer and a video clip started running. The face of a bearded man with shaggy blond hair appeared.

“My name is Stuart Tomney,” he said in a pleasant, melodic voice. “Some of you may remember me as the man whose wife was mugged and left bleeding to death in the middle of Stepney Park. For those who haven’t heard about it, please check the links you see right here,” he pointed above his head where two links were slowly fading in, “and no, she was not being careless. She was walking home one afternoon after meeting her friend and children for a stroll when a group of drunken hooligans started harassing her, and when she wouldn’t hand her purse over –,” his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat, “– when she wouldn’t give them her purse, and yes, that was not a smart thing to do, they started beating her and eventually stabbed her.” He held up a photo of a smiling woman with chestnut curls. “She was 36 years old. The police never caught the guys who did this. I’m guessing they’re busy handling paperwork and parading the prettier parts of London, and so I’ve decided to do all that’s in my humble power to assist our overworked policemen- and women. Picking up the dirt, if you will. I will keep you posted. End of message.”

The clip ended and for a moment, there was silence in the room. Then somebody groaned, and suddenly everybody started talking.

Andy let them carry on for a few minutes, then he gave a shrill whistle.

“That is correct, boys and girls, we have a self-proclaimed avenger running loose on our streets. Any useful suggestions how we can end his career before he reaches YouTube celeb status?”

Greg crossed his ankles and watched Andy handle the brainstorming session that followed which consisted of the usual mix of nonsense and helpful suggestions. He had chosen his successor well. Over the past two months, Andy had made good progress and would soon be an efficient team leader. He had gradually shaken off his occasional indecisiveness and had earned the respect of most of the team members, and those who were still in doubt at least didn’t work against him.

It still felt strange, pulling out of active duty, but the idea of teaching full time had grown on him, and he was looking forward to having more time to himself, too. In addition, Steph had started looking into entering Newham College after her GCSE, having her eyes and heart set to the bespoke tailoring course. Mr O’Reilly, Mycroft’s personal tailor, had written her a personal letter of recommendation when her work experience had ended and when Greg had come to pick her up on her final day had assured him how pleasant it had been to have such a promising young talent around and no, Steph had not stolen his time at all. (“We’ve been sitting on our hands for a while, Mr Lestrade,” he had confided after making sure no-one was listening. “Savile Row needs fresh faces and fresh ideas, and it’s about time we get more female tailors on board if we want to attract businesswomen, too.”) Mycroft had, without hesitation, agreed that she should live with them if she were indeed to attend the Newham course, had even looked pleased when Greg had brought the subject up. He was fairly certain Cathy, his ex-wife, wouldn’t object either. So all in all, the future was looking bright. He merely needed some adjusting.

After the briefing he walked up to Andy.

“What’s the hit count?” he asked. “The YouTube hits, I mean. Not the actual hits.”

“Around five thousand,” Andy said sourly. “Give it a few more hours, some Facebook and Twitter ‘WTF’ reblogs, and the bloody thing will go viral.” He closed the laptop with unnecessary force. “God, sometimes I wish we were still in the age of typewriters and walkie-talkies.”

“Yeah, me too. I wouldn’t want to work without nowadays forensics anymore but the social networks? Life was a lot more peaceful without all that cyberrhea.”

“Cyberrhea?” Andy looked at him and laughed. “Never heard that one before but I like it. Fancy doing some old school police work and go through the files with me? In case I’ve missed anything?”

“I doubt you’ve missed anything but yeah, I can do that. Old school police work coming right up.”

They grabbed a coffee on the way to Andy’s office and spent the rest of the afternoon going through the meagre findings and watching the short clip in slow-motion, hoping for something to identify Tomney’s whereabouts but he seemed to have recorded his message in a hotel room that was every bit as nondescript as it was depressing. In the meantime, the clip’s hits climbed slowly but steadily.

******

At the same time in another part of London, Mycroft was looking at the results of Chris’ application. As expected, he had outperformed his fellow students by far. What a difference to the mediocre student he had been a few years ago! The school he had attended back then hadn’t provided him with the intellectual stimulation and challenges his exceptional brain needed but a transfer to the Harris City Academy had catapulted him right into the top ranks. He gave a small smile, feeling as proud as if Chris’ achievements were his own.

“You were right about the boy, Mycroft,” Fitzcarlton said. “That is quite an impressive result. With your permission I would like to look into the possibility of having him fill in for one of our junior staff who is due for promotion by the end of the year. He has put in for holidays before Christmas and there’ll be a gap of three to four weeks to cover until his successor can step in. Young Lestrade could cover some of the basic work. Do you think his parents would object to him working during the winter break? He would miss one week of university, after all.”

“Well, as far as I know, Christopher’s grades are exceptional and I am very sure his father won’t mind. His mother usually is very supportive, too, although I am not sure if she is fully aware of his plans.”

“I will speak with his parents before the contract is being prepared. He’s not yet of full age and we will need their written approval.”

“The twenty-third of November is his eighteenth birthday,” Mycroft pointed out. “Will he have to work on Christmas Day?”

“Of course not. He will get to take the afternoon of the twenty-fourth off and won’t have to return before the twenty-seventh. New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day are off, too. He is a student, after all.”

“In that case, I don’t see why his parents should object. Thank you for informing me, Daniel, I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure Angus will be over the moon. He’s become a bit desperate. It was harder to find an alternate than expected. We have plenty of applications for the IT section but not many are suited for that line of work. Being a geek isn’t enough.”

“Don’t I know it.” Mycroft handed the slim binder back to Fitzcarlton. “I will not mention this to Mr Lestrade until you have spoken with him. Christopher’s parents should hear it from you, not from me. It’ll be more official then.”

“Thank you.” Fitzcarlton rose from his chair. “Please excuse me. I have a meeting with the Home Secretary in thirty minutes.”

“Morrison?”

Fitzcarlton nodded grimly and Mycroft stood, too, extending his hand.

“Best of luck, Daniel, and thank you again for taking the time to update me.”

He watched Fitzcarlton leave, grateful that this time he wasn’t the one to carry bad news. One of Fitzcarlton’s section chiefs had turned out to be a double agent who had delivered sensitive material to a less than friendly third party who had doubtlessly been rubbing their hands together in glee about having turned a high-ranking MI5 officer. He had been found out by the merest of accidents – another gym member having commented on a tattoo that had no business being where it was – and the trap had closed just in time. Still, the Home Secretary would be less than pleased and Mycroft didn’t envy Fitzcarlton.

A quick glance at his pocket watch told him he had half an hour left before his next phone conference and so he reached for his mobile phone, dialled and waited for the call to be connected.

“Sir?”

“Has it been arranged?”

“Everything’s in place.”

“Good. Proceed as instructed.”

“Very well, sir.”

He disconnected the call, tapped his lips with his fingers and frowned, staring at the blank screen of his phone. Then he dialled another number.

“Hello Mycroft,” Steph cheerfully greeted him. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Dear me. What do you want me to do now?”

“Nothing,” she said with a gurgle. “Why do you always think I want you to do something?”

“Because that’s what usually happens. How are you? And why have you been thinking about me?”

“I’m great, thanks. I was just thinking about what to wear to the ball and whether you would allow me to design a pocket square for you.”

“I would be delighted.”

“You would?”

“Of course. Do you have anything special in mind?”

“That depends on what you’ll wear. The invitation says ‘Lounge Suit’ slash ‘Smart’.”

“Charcoal,” Mycroft said after a moment of contemplation. “I’ll wear the charcoal three-piece. No stripes. Do you think you could make me a tie until then? To go with the pocket square?”

“Really? You would let me make you a tie?”

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“You did, but –”

“No but, chit. Just go easy on the colours, alright?”

“I know. No flowers. Nothing too fancy. Do you know what Dad’s gonna wear?”

“He’s picked up his suit yesterday. It’s navy check, very subtle check,” he added. “Very classy. He looks very handsome in it.”

“Three-piece or two-piece?”

“Three-piece.”

“Wow,” she said, sounding thrilled. “You’ll both look spectacular. I can’t wait to show up with you.”

“Come now,” he protested. “I’m sure there’ll be more handsome and younger men than your father and me.”

“Younger, probably. More handsome? I doubt it.”

“Flattery will get you anywhere, right?”

“Mycroft!” She giggled.

“Stephanie,” he said mockingly. “So, and what is the princess going to wear?”

“That is why I was thinking about you.”

“I knew it. There had to be more than the pocket square. What do you want?”

“I want nothing from you. I just wanted to ask whether it would be okay if I asked Anthea to help me make a dress.”

“Anthea?”

“Yes. You know she’s very good at making things.”

“She’s very good at everything she does.”

“See? You know we’re in touch but this time, I’d like to ask her to spend some time with me, you know, selecting the fabric, helping me with the fittings and so on. And since she’s your assistant and it’s all a bit tricky with what you do, you know, I can’t just ring her up and ask her to meet. Conflict of interest and all,” she explained, sounding very adult, and Mycroft stifled a laugh.

“That is very considerate of you, thank you, Steph. Please be assured that while our line of work does take up a considerable part of our lives, we still have some time to ourselves. I can’t see how making a dress should cause a conflict of interest.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. So you go ahead and ring her up. You have my blessing.”

“Oh good. Thank you!”

He smiled at the obvious relief in her voice. “No need to thank me. I’m very much looking forward to seeing you and your brother.”

“I can’t wait, either. I only hope he’s not going to be snatched up by the CIA or anything.”

“We’ll see about that.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I have an appointment coming up that I need to prepare. I just wanted to say hello and hear how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay. So thanks for the call, and thanks for permitting me to phone Anthea.”

“Steph, please, I’m hardly in a position to permit or forbid anything.”

“Oh but you are. You’re my wicked stepfather.”

“You’re making it sound as if I make you sleep by the fireplace.”

“Wicked, like I said.”

“Hornet,” he said, grinning. “So off you go, stepdaughter. I’m sure there’s plenty of work to do.”

“There always is. Say hi to Dad, and thanks for calling!”

“I will, and thank you.”

He was still grinning when he placed the phone on his desk. Not too long ago, the thought of making a social phone call would have felt like an absurdity, but he had come to enjoy the occasional chit-chat with Steph Lestrade who was so very much like her father and had inherited his ability to make others feel at ease. Her brother, on the other hand, had inherited his father's looks, was in fact the spitting image of Greg, but Chris strongly reminded Mycroft of young Sherlock. Ringing him up just to hear how he was doing hardly ever occurred to him, and Chris didn’t expect him to, unless there was something the matter. Then he, too, sought Mycroft’s advice. Steph, on the other hand, enjoyed chatting with him in general, and in return, he enjoyed chatting with her.

He put his reading glasses on and opened the file that Andrew, the newest member of his team, had prepared for him. With any luck, this call would be a routine catch-up.

******

Six weeks later, Greg was trying very hard to coordinate his feet, frantically trying to remember the dance drills Mycroft had put him through.

“Careful, Dad,” Steph dug her fingers into Greg’s upper arm. “Watch your feet. You’re ruining my shoes.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I told you I’m a rotten dancer.”

“It’s not that bad but you really must watch your feet.”

“I know. I’m lacking in the fine motor skills department.” He raised his head to look at his daughter instead of his feet. “Mycroft calls me the dancefloor caveman.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Ah but he does. You only think he’s nicer than Sherlock because his overall social skills are more polished, but the Holmes brothers really aren’t all that different.”

“But you don’t look like a caveman.” She stroked the lapel of his new suit. “You look very sharp.”

“Thank you. And you are by far the prettiest girl in this room.” He smiled when she blushed. “’s true, chit. I’m very proud of you.”

When they had met Chris and Steph in the lobby of the hotel Mycroft had them booked into, he had felt his heart swell with paternal pride. Chris looked very handsome and dashing in his midnight blue suit, and Steph… well, Steph looked like a princess in her knee-length periwinkle dress that hugged her slender frame but wasn’t too revealing, sleeveless but moderately cut in front and back. Nothing to raise his alarms and besides, Mycroft had four security detail keep their trained eyes on them.

The music ended after what seemed like half an eternity to Greg, and with barely concealed relief he led his daughter back to their table. The moment he sat down, his phone vibrated and he took it from his inside pocket with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry about that but I told Andy he could ring me up if he – the hell?” He looked at the phone, frowning. “It’s John. Excuse me.” He accepted the call. “Hello John, what is it?”

“Did you know about that?” John’s voice could barely be heard over the music, and Greg stood from his chair.

“John, wait a sec. I’m at a ball sort of thing. I can’t hear you. Let me find a quiet corner.”

With long strides he headed away from the music and found a relatively quiet corner at the back of the room.

“Sorry about that.”

“What ball?”

“At Cambridge University. But it’s only some semi-formal thing, to greet the new students and start the new semester, something like that. Is everything alright, John?”

“I had a visit from some of your Met colleagues earlier tonight.”

“What? Why?”

“They asked me to come with them to the station to ID a few photos.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It seems the blokes who drove the van have been found guilty of distributing child pornography.”

“What?”

“They were held up at the Swedish border two weeks and when their car was searched, the border police found enough evidence on their laptops and their phones to put them behind bars for a very long time.”

“Oh wow.” Greg automatically looked across the room to their table where Mycroft sat chatting with Steph and a grey-haired woman. “I had no idea.”

“You think Mycroft…” John let the second half of his sentence hover in mid-air, unspoken.

“I don’t know, John, honest to God. But that’s good, right? I mean, they’ll be off the streets then and can’t pull any more shit with others.”

“Well yeah, of course it’s good, but I’d rather have seen them locked away for what they did to Mary.”

“I’m sure that’s gonna add to their sentence.”

“Yeah, but I wonder – no, Sherlock, put that down,” he yelled, and Greg held the phone away from his ear. “That doesn’t go there. It’s Emily’s, for fuck’s sake!” Greg heard a muffled argument, then John’s voice came back on. “Sorry about that. Sometimes it’s like having two toddlers at home. Anyway, I wonder if that’s not a bit too convenient.”

“I see what you mean but we don’t really know an awful lot about them, right? It’s like I told you a while back, they haven’t been convicted of anything over here but you have no idea what else they might have been up to elsewhere. The boys over at the cyber squad are full of stories that only happen online, so maybe the border police got tipped off by a pissed hacker or something.”

“You’re probably right.” John sounded doubtful. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“And now off you go, Greg. Ball, eh? Is there dancing?”

“You bet there is,” Greg groaned. “I think I ruined Steph’s new shoes, and Mycroft’s not trying very hard to hide his grin.”

“Well, you have fun then, Cinderella. Just make sure you’re out of there by midnight. You know, pumpkin and all.”

“Thank you, John. It’s nice to know you’re on my side.”

“Anytime, mate.”

“Bye now.”

He ended the call and went back to their table, grabbing a glass of something fizzy on his way.

“John told me a fascinating little story,” he said conversationally as he sat down next to Mycroft.

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes.” He took a careful sip and sneezed when some of the fizzy found its way into his nose. “Bloody hell!” He made a face and put the glass on the table. “That’s disgusting!” He sneezed again. “Where was I?”

“John.”

“That’s right. Just imagine, the guys who hit his car? The Swedish border police found tons of child pornography on their laptops.”

“Imagine that.”

“Mycroft, look at me.”

Mycroft obeyed, looking straight at him with unblinking eyes.

“You wouldn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Greg, if I meddled with the computers of all suspects who are about to slip through the net due to lack of evidence, I wouldn’t get my actual work done.”

“That’s a lot of syllables for saying no.”

“No, I haven’t meddled with their laptops.”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“That’s the only answer you’ll get.”

They stared at each other for a while, then their eye contact was broken by the arrival of Chris who tapped his father on the shoulder.

“Dad, could you come with me for a moment? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Greg gave Mycroft one last piercing stare, then he got up and followed his son to a small group of distinguished-looking men and women. One of them walked up to them, extending his hand to Greg.

“Mr Lestrade, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Professor Leyendecker, and I teach applied mathematics…”

 

Back at their table, Mycroft typed two words and hit ‘send’, just as Steph was clearing her throat.

“Now that the two musically challenged members of my family have finally left, will you dance with me, Mycroft?”

“I should like that very much.”

He was about to put his phone back into his inside pocket when it buzzed. He unlocked the screen.

_Pleasure._

With a small smile, he deleted the brief conversation, put the phone away and offered his arm to Steph.

“I’m entirely at your disposal, princess.”


	12. Epilogue

_5 years later_

Mycroft got out of the limousine that had met him at the jet’s gangway. He waited patiently for Andrew, his new assistant, to collect the documents that had scattered all over the floor when the briefcase had fallen down, and sighed inwardly. Andrew was as brisk and efficient as one could hope for, with a razor-sharp mind and good, proactive thinking. Alas, he also succumbed to the occasional streak of clumsiness and it was in moments like this one that he missed Anthea most of all. The sigh that now escaped him was loud enough for Andrew to hear.

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes,” he said, blushing hotly. “I’m sorry for causing a delay.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft dismissively replied. “No harm done. Just, pray, do try and be a little more careful with these documents, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. Thank you.”

Mycroft turned to walk towards the VIP lounge where passport control and security were taken care of, his thoughts lingering on Anthea some more. When her little girl was born two years ago, she had stepped down from the post as his personal assistant and was now coordinating the field agents, a position that was still demanding but which she shared with another employee, leaving her enough time to build a family life with her husband Jeremy, Mycroft’s personal driver. While he still missed her, he was genuinely happy for her and had been thrilled when she had asked him to give her away at the altar.

He handed his passport to the middle-aged security guard and when it was returned to him with a brief nod, he walked through the gate.

“Sir, has there been a mistake with today’s schedule?”

“Mhm?”

Andrew picked up speed so he came to walk next to his boss. “I was going to go through today’s agenda with you but there’s only one video conference scheduled for this afternoon. Would you like me to have your device checked for software problems?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have shifted today’s appointments into next week. Tomorrow’s appointments, too.”

“But –” Andrew started but Mycroft cut him off.

“It’s my birthday today, Andrew, and I don’t intend to spend it in routine staff meetings. Luckily, there is nothing on the agenda that requires my immediate attention, and the team knows how to reach me in case of an emergency.” He glanced sideways at the young man and smiled. “You should take today off as well, Andrew, if your workload permits. It’s a lovely day and the most amazing things can happen on a sunny Saturday in London. And now please excuse me. I believe I’m being expected.”

With a nod, he turned to the arrivals area where three people stood waiting.

Chris Lestrade, who had managed to take the day off, looking sharp despite his casual outfit. He had grown into a disturbingly handsome young man and had quickly become a valuable addition to Daniel Fitzcarlton’s section – well on the way to becoming the next Q, just as he had dreamed about all these years ago. Steph Lestrade, a slim and graceful young woman whose mad blond curls had somewhat been tamed into a braided tail that reached well beyond her shoulder blades. She had finished the tailoring course at Newham with excellent grades and was now the proud apprentice of Mr O’Reilly, her epitome of taste and fashion.

However, his eyes zeroed in on the man who had come to stand for everything that was bright and warm and welcoming in his life. Greg. At fifty-five, he still turned heads, slim, athletic and lightly tanned, all silver fox and walking temptation, and Mycroft briefly wondered whether there would ever come a time when his knees wouldn’t go weak at the sight of him…

“There he is! Welcome home, birthday boy!”

… or at the sound of his husky voice.

He sat down his briefcase and stepped into the circle of arms welcoming him home.

His family.

****** 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! This is the end of Greg's and Mycroft's story as I see it. Thanks so much for sticking around although it's taken me an absurd amount of time to write it. Your feedback and encouragement has meant the world to me, and I'm grateful for each and everyone of my readers who has taken the time to give kudos, or write a review, or simply read. You are all fantastic and much loved human beings, and I'm cyber-hugging all of you very, very fiercely!


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